The Excalibur Codex (23 page)

Hermann looked from face to face, studying the reaction to his tale, but only Charlotte’s showed any emotion.

‘My God, Jamie, what does it mean?’

Jamie was still trying to work out the implications of what he’d heard. The swords, it had to be about the swords. Why else would the Russian commander kill his own men? Unless von Orseln’s castle contained some other secret they weren’t aware of. ‘I don’t know, I—’

‘Trouble.’ Gault’s warning held an edge that said
big trouble.

Four men emerged from between the houses and walked towards them in the kind of open, gunfighter formation that told Jamie they were probably armed and that at least two of them were former soldiers. In fact, walk was the wrong word, they had the kind of wary, swivel-headed swagger of a pack of hunting lions.

‘I don’t suppose you happen to have that
Panzerfaust
with you, Hermann?’ Jamie glanced at the German and saw something he didn’t like his eyes. ‘Jesus, you set this up. Who the hell are they?’

Hermann looked as if he were about to run. ‘You didn’t say was secret. They ask. I tell.’

‘Good morning, Mr Saintclair,’ a voice speaking Russian cut across the square. The owner was the slight young man in the centre pairing of the four. He wore an expensive leather bomber jacket over a white shirt, tan cowboy boots and, despite his lack of physical stature, had a natural authority that made the others defer to him. If he was the velvet glove, his companions were the iron fist; narrow-eyed, unsmiling and with hard muscles bulging beneath jackets professionally cut to disguise shoulder holsters. Professionals. But what kind of professionals?

‘Charlotte, get behind the car. Gault, if this gets rough do what you’re being paid to do. Hermann? You and I will have words.’

Charlotte edged towards the BMW, and Gault took a step right, which coincidentally put him at a favourable angle to the two men opposite him and closer to the driver’s door of the car. He gave Jamie an imperceptible nod. The young Russian raised his hand. ‘Please stay where you are,’ he said in perfect English. ‘I am here to deliver a social invitation to Mr Saintclair to visit our lovely city of Kaliningrad, and if his companions should wish to accompany him, they will experience the best of our famous Russian hospitality.’

Jamie kept his confusion to himself. He’d thought this was about the swords. But why would anyone want him to go to Kaliningrad? The four men in front of him reeked of the Russian mafia. Had they somehow got wind of the Excalibur codex? It was possible. Maybe Rolf Ziegler, or more likely Otto, had had more than one copy and had tried to sell the contents. Whatever the explanation, Jamie wasn’t planning to go anywhere near Kaliningrad. He stood, ready to fight or flee as the circumstances dictated. The car lay eight feet to his left and if Charlotte had been two steps closer he would have been tempted to opt for the latter. In their present situation, he saw no chance of the four of them getting into the car before the Russians made their move. Still, nobody had pulled a gun. It wasn’t time to fight yet.

‘Perhaps if you explained the specific attractions of your lovely city?’ he suggested. ‘I might consider your offer.’

‘We,’ the Russian smiled and waved a hand at his marble-visaged comrades, ‘represent a gentleman who is travelling all the way from Moscow to our fair city. He “heard you were in the neighbourhood”, as I believe our American friends put it, and because he is very keen to make your acquaintance, jumped on the first available plane. That plane, I might say, is one of several he owns, so the hardship is not so great as you might imagine.’

Jamie tried to think of a Russian he might have annoyed, but could only come up with one, and Oleg Samsonov, the former owner of the fabled Eye of Isis,
was dead, a psychopath’s bullet in his throat. Still, the Russian billionaire might have friends and some of them could well blame Jamie Saintclair for his demise, along with his wife and several bodyguards. The young man’s smile broadened as he saw understanding dawn. ‘I see we are already “on the same wavelength”, as they say. Yes, my … client is interested in the circumstances of the late and dearly lamented Oleg Samsonov’s death, particularly from one of the last people to see him alive.’

‘He was already dead,’ Jamie pointed out. Sometimes a situation required brutal honesty.

The Russian pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Yes, that may be the case, but nevertheless you have a certain knowledge of his apartments at the time of his demise, yes?’ Jamie blinked. He remembered a sunburst of colour as the only version of Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
in private hands slipped into view as he checked Samsonov’s safe room. The man shrugged. ‘There is a question of certain assets unaccounted for … unpaid debts, business liabilities … and my client would be willing to pay handsomely for information about their possible whereabouts.’

‘I don’t think I can help your client,’ Jamie said evenly. ‘As you see, we have some … birdwatching to do, and the migrants don’t stay still for long.’ He noticed the three heavies stiffen and their fingers moved a little closer to their chests. The young man waved a calming hand.

‘Perhaps—’

The Russian was interrupted as two large black Mercedes SUVs drew into the square and drove slowly between the two groups to stand idling near the houses on the far side, their mirrored windows glittering menacingly in the low sun that had fought its way through the drizzle. They were stationary for only a moment, before the engine note picked up and equally slowly, they made their way back out of the square.

Both sides of the little confrontation stood not quite certain how to react to the intrusion. From the look on the Russian faces, Jamie was certain the cars didn’t belong to their reinforcements, not that they needed them. That seemed to indicate only one thing and Jamie was still pondering the perfect timing of Sarah Grant and her team when he noticed the Russian approaching cautiously across the Tarmac. ‘It seems you are not the only birdwatchers, Mr Saintclair, but please don’t think this is over. My card.’ The young man handed over a cardboard rectangle. ‘Be certain to get in touch when the … birds are less elusive.’ He put out his hand and Jamie took it to find his fingers in the grip of an iron vice. ‘My client can be an impatient man and any future invitations may be more forceful.’

‘Is that a threat, Mr …’ he glanced at the name on the card, ‘… Vatutin?’

‘Oh, I believe it is, Mr Saintclair. Good day.’ He turned and walked back the way he’d come with his comrades in his wake. Jamie waited until he heard the sound of a car’s engine before he moved.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here. And Gault? Find a different route back to the hotel. I don’t want to drive a mile up the road and find those bastards waiting for us.’ Gault started to unfold the map. ‘We haven’t got time for that. Hermann, get in the front.’

Jamie slipped into the back seat beside Charlotte. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Some business that wasn’t as unfinished as I thought.’ He saw Gault’s eyes on him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Just drive.’

‘They came to the bar last—’

‘It’s done. Hermann; there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

‘Who the fuck were our guardian angels in the upmarket hearses?’ Gault demanded.

Jamie shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

‘I’m a thousand miles from anybody I trust, I want to know all the angles.’

‘Friends, I think.’

He felt the ex SBS man staring at him in the car mirror. ‘That’s fucking helpful.’

They drove for an hour, following Hermann’s directions along a circuitous route using single roads and farm tracks, past lakes and through forests. Eventually they reached a junction with a sign directing them to Ketrzyn. The road it pointed to had the familiar railway line that ran past the
Wolfsschanze
to their right side.

‘Thank Christ,’ Gault muttered.

‘What do we do, Jamie?’ Charlotte asked. ‘We can’t give up now.’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Nortstein isn’t quite a dead end. Somebody will know the identity of the partisan leader. There’ll be records. But the chances are he’s long dead, and even if he’s not he’s unlikely to want to chat about the day he butchered his men. It would tarnish the memory of his glorious war record. Still, it might be worth a try. Otherwise, it’s back to the archives. Deep down in some box file in Moscow or Berlin or Washington there may be a piece of paper that lists
Five swords of unknown origin
. It’s a long shot.’

‘It’s a fucking waste of time, and you know it.’

‘I’m not psychic, Gault. When the Red Army destroyed Nortstein castle and forced the local residents out to Christ knows where, all the evidence went with it. We could have been standing within twenty feet of the bloody thing, but we’d never know.’

Hermann turned in his seat with a look of puzzlement. ‘Red Army not destroy Nortstein Castle.’

‘What?’

‘Nortstein Castle is not destroyed. It is dismantled one stone at a time and taken away in trucks.’

‘Why would anyone …? ’ Jamie’s head reeled at this new and utterly surreal turn. ‘You mean they knocked it down and took the rubble away?’

‘No. Not knocked down. Tadiusz who works in hotel was labourer. They very careful with everything.
Window glass. Wood panels. Roof tiles. Everything in back of trucks.’

‘What would the Russians want with a Polish castle?’

‘Not Russians.’ Hermann grinned. ‘Man who told Tadiusz what to do was English, like you.’

‘Our friends are back,’ Gault interrupted.

Jamie looked back to find one of the Mercedes SUVs approaching fast behind them.

‘Do you want me to let them past?’

‘I don’t know,’ he snapped.

‘Well, make up your mind.’

‘Maybe …’

‘Friends my arse.’ Gault threw the big BMW into a screaming turn as another of the black Mercs drove from a forest track to block the road in front of them. Jamie’s head hit the padded roof as the car bounced over the verge to straddle the rail track. ‘Put your bloody belts on.’ The three-litre engine roared as Gault accelerated the bucketing car in an attempt to bypass the roadblock, but the Mercedes easily kept pace with them. ‘I hope to fuck the two o’clock Bialystok express isn’t due.’ Gault’s eyes darted between the tracks ahead, the first Mercedes barrelling along to their left and the second, which had now joined them on the track, was catching up fast.

Charlotte screamed as they hit a crossing point and the car leapt in the air, crashing back to earth a millisecond later. The impact made Jamie wince as a spear of agony lanced through his chest, confirming his ribs weren’t
as well healed as he’d thought. He glanced left to see the Mercedes slightly above and a few feet away on the road. What in the name of Christ was going on? He’d been certain the cars belonged to the Israelis, but if Sarah Grant wanted to get in touch she had his phone number. The Russians? The passenger side window of the Mercedes dropped slowly to answer his question. A hard brown face stared at him and motioned with his hand to slow down. In case Jamie hadn’t got the message his other hand appeared showing what looked like a Glock 9mm.

He turned to Gault. ‘I think they want us to stop.’

‘Do tell.’ The SBS man kept his eyes on the track ahead.

‘The chap who suggested it looked like an Asian or an Arab.’

‘Well, fuck you, Abdul.’ Gault put his foot to the floor and the BMW surged ahead, but only for a moment before the Mercedes came level again, overtook and bumped across the verge on to the track ahead, immediately hitting the brakes.

‘Shit.’ The trunk of a tree flashed past Jamie’s window as Gault hauled the wheel to the right and the car rocketed out of the railbed and into the forest, swerving between the trees and bucketing over the uneven ground at breakneck speed.

‘Where in the name of Christ did you learn to drive like this?’ Jamie shouted, when it became clear he wasn’t going to die just yet.

‘Close protection course. Hereford. Nineteen ninety-three. Ouch.’ Gault grimaced as a fallen branch scraped along the car’s metalwork. ‘It was fun, especially when you had a celeb crapping themselves in the back. Are the bastards still with us?’

The bastards were, but they weren’t quite so confident among the trees and the SUVs were falling back. ‘I think we’re losing them.’

‘Great,’ the SBS man said through gritted teeth as a bunker loomed up in front of the car and he spun the wheel to take the BMW past with an inch to spare. The front tyre hit something solid with a horrible whack and suddenly Gault was fighting the wheel much harder.

‘I know where we are,’ Hermann screamed. ‘Go right and you will reach a track.’

‘Will it take us back to the hotel?’ Charlotte asked breathlessly.

‘No, but it will take us away from these people.’

‘That’ll have to do,’ Gault grunted. ‘This fucking thing only wants to go right anyway.’

Two hundred yards ahead, they hit the track and the bucketing motion eased. Everyone relaxed a little, except Gault who kept one eye on the mirror. ‘Where does this lead us?’

‘Out to General Jodl’s bunker,’ Hermann said. ‘From there you will find a way back to the hotel.’

‘They might be waiting for us,’ Jamie pointed out.

‘We have to go somewhere,’ Gault snapped. ‘And
better among other people than out here in the sticks where nobody hears you scream. Oh, fuck.’

Gault hit the accelerator and Jamie didn’t have to look to know that the Mercedes was back. ‘Just stay ahead of them. They’re not going to start a war.’ He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. Muzzle flashes rippled in the passenger mirror before he heard the chainsaw rasp of a burst of automatic fire that ripped white chips from the bark of a tree ahead and to their right. ‘Get your heads down,’ he shouted.

The second burst was short or wide, but the third must have hit something because the rear of the BMW swung right and left.

‘The tyres,’ Gault said unnecessarily. ‘Now we’re really fucked.’ He kept the car on the track, but the Mercedes closed up and it was clear the next burst would be through the back window. ‘Hold on tight.’ He spun the wheel left and the car shot between two trees and down a tree-filled gully, bouncing across rocks and fallen branches until it slid to a halt, engine roaring, beside a small stream.