Roberto scrambled for logical thoughts. “I’m sharing secrets with you, Edward. Let’s get back to the project. You don’t have to like me. I don’t have to be your best friend. But I want to help you find these amazing things right here below your store. They’re here! I know they are! You do too! We can enjoy them together, even if we don’t tell anyone they exist. I don’t want fame and fortune. I just need to know I found something no one else has ever found. Don’t you want to do that too?”
Edward rocked back and forth on his heels as Roberto talked. He quietly hummed a tune, apparently oblivious to the man tied up in front of him.
He’s losing it right this minute and he’s totally irrational, Roberto thought. He began to be fearful Edward was going to kill him now.
Finally Edward turned and started up the ladder.
“I’ll think about it. I’ll come back later. Either I’ll bring you something to eat or I’ll kill you.”
I say we kill him!
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Edward’s mind raged. Two floors below, Juan Carlos was his prisoner. He couldn’t keep his mind on work; he was so preoccupied his clerk had to take over a transaction he was trying to complete. She shot him a quizzical look and he excused himself, saying he didn’t feel well. He sat at the table in the back room and picked up Guinevere’s diary. He wanted to do this now. He didn’t want to think about Juan Carlos down in the crypt. He just needed to calm down and read the diary. He picked up the book and started translating. Immediately both his mental state and his countenance changed. His mind transformed. He became his old self again. The bad dark thing retreated to the place he lived in Edward’s head. For now.
Guinevere’s diary told about the ongoing war near Mount Badon, around twenty miles from Camelot. Messages were carried back and forth from the castle to the front lines. Merlin went to Mount Badon regularly and provided Arthur the benefit of his mystical powers.
One gray afternoon in 500 AD in the sixth week of the conflict, Guinevere watched from her tower window as several mounted riders appeared in the distance. As they got closer, she saw the flag of the Britons; these were Arthur’s soldiers accompanying a wagon carrying a wooden box. A coffin. The riders wore black armbands and the neck of the horse pulling the wagon was draped in a black sash.
“Oh God. Oh dear God,” her diary recorded. “Please God don’t let it be my husband.”
Edward stopped a moment and reflected. He was halfway through the last of the three diaries. He had translated every word from Welsh. Exciting words, inciting words, mundane words. He felt he had an insight into the shallow young woman who hopped into bed without shame, embarrassment and apparently without caring who knew. Except for her husband – for some unknown reason she strove to keep hidden from Arthur the dalliances that were an open secret to everyone else. It wasn’t out of fear. Arthur likely wouldn’t hurt her although God only knew how badly she hurt him. But he was truly in love with her. Even the Queen knew, and dutifully recorded, that most of the castle felt his pain when they saw how she returned his love.
Her words said it all.
I have no friends. My retinues are my only comfort and even they merely pretend to care about me. In truth my husband’s subjects loathe and revile me. Even the men I bring to my bed merely perform like mere actors on a stage. I suppose I want love from them. I really don’t know why I do this. From my sexual partners I get lusty passion, a hard penis and thrusting, grunting orgasms that remind me of the animals in our pens. Only my Arthur is truly my lover, my friend, my confidant, my King. And how do I repay him? I give him sex then go straight to the arms of others. What kind of horrible creature am I?
Edward reflected on her words. He could have written them himself. I have no friends either. My release isn’t sexual – oh, maybe now and then, by myself – but I get my release in a different way. I go to secret places inside my own mind. I can live without friends because I need only myself. I have no friends either, but I’m not pitiful like Guinevere. I’m strong. I even have a prisoner! I’m like …
He paused at what he had almost admitted. He’d had these thoughts before. But he hadn’t embraced the truth – hadn’t put a name to what he was. But now he could. He wasn’t mentally ill, he assured himself. He was simply two people living inside one body.
I’m like Dr. Jekyll. He chose not to think about Jekyll’s alter ego, the one who presently held Juan Carlos prisoner in the chamber downstairs.
In an odd way that brief self-evaluation comforted Edward. He turned back to the diary.
Guinevere ran to the courtyard as the horsemen arrived. Tears streamed down her face. She saw the knight Percival, the one who had been chosen to accompany the body home. She realized they were bearing someone important; dozens or hundreds had likely already given their lives but a knight had not accompanied their bodies home. For Sir Percival to be along was a bad sign. She feared the worst. Her heart pounded as she grasped his tunic.
“Is it he? Is it he?” I was weeping so hard I could not see, she wrote.
Edward found himself engrossed in her story. The sadness must have been overwhelming. The next words tore at Edward’s heartstrings, as they must likewise have done to the Queen.
“I regret that it is, my lady.”
I screamed over and over. “Oh my God! Oh my God! My husband is dead.”
Surprised and suddenly embarrassed, Percival shook his head. He spoke quietly so others would not hear. “Apologies, my Queen. I misunderstood about whom you were inquiring. The body we bear is that of my brother Lamorak.”
Obviously everyone had heard of her sordid tryst with the brave knight. Even his own brother Percival thought her tears were for Lamorak instead of her own husband.
How pitiful, Edward thought.
Edward glanced at his watch. The time had flown. It was almost five and the store would close soon. It had been six hours since he came up from the chamber. He had to decide what to do with Juan Carlos Sebastian.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Roberto spent the afternoon trying to escape. He had to admit two things: Edward had done a good job securing him and, despite his background, he hadn’t been prepared for Edward.
His hands were so tightly bound with the twist ties that the circulation was almost cut off. His fingers were numb – using his hands to feel around for a solution was therefore impossible. He sat on his butt, feet in front of him on the floor, back and arms roped to the pipe, thinking of a way to get loose. He rocked back and forth, but the pipe was solid. It didn’t budge. Nothing else came to mind and he dozed periodically as the hours dragged by.
He thought of using his feet to kick Edward and knock him out, but that wouldn’t work. All Edward would do was wake up with Roberto still tied in place, and retaliate.
He spent his waking hours planning how to talk his way out. Maybe that would work with this completely crazy bastard. If it didn’t, he’d be the next resident of the new cemetery Edward had created below the floor.
He heard creaks on the stairs, and Edward finally appeared in the chamber, carrying a grocery sack. Roberto looked at his face; the man appeared calmer and more composed than he had earlier. That was a good sign.
Edward put a bottle of water and a sandwich next to Roberto. Then he removed a notepad and a knife.
“I want to finish our project, but I don’t see how I can trust you. I’m going to release one of your hands so you can eat, but I may decide to tie it up again when you’re done. While you’re eating, I want to tell you what I learned this afternoon from Guinevere’s diary.”
Roberto was encouraged; the fact that he wanted to talk instead of killing him outright just might indicate there was a chance for escape.
Edward reached behind Roberto and sliced through the tie around his left wrist with the knife. Roberto shook his hand hard to restart the blood flow. It was nearly purple.
“These ties are too tight. I’m going to lose my hands if you leave them that way.”
&n
bsp; Ignoring him, Edward sat on the floor five feet away and read the entire passage he’d translated about the Battle of Badon.
Roberto was a little concerned about eating the food Edward prepared, given his history with the tea. But he was starving, and surely Edward wouldn’t spend time explaining what he’d learned from the diary if he was going to poison Roberto right away. As he ate, he listened intently to Edward. The information was intriguing and Edward was as sane as any person alive … at this precise moment. Who knew how long it would last? Roberto had to convince Edward to release him.
“Incredible work. Now we know that the body of Lamorak has arrived at Camelot. I’m hoping the next diary entries will tell how he got to London. You’re getting right to the meat of the matter – exactly what we need to know. This corroboration can prove everything. This could be our proof that the Knights of the Round Table were real. We need to do this together. Let’s put the past behind us. Cut me loose and let’s move on. I can use the GPR to search for the graves of Arthur and Guinevere, and you can continue the translating.”
Edward hung his head, contrite. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I thought you were trying to find the bodies…”
The bodies. There was more than one person down there.
“But now I’ve thought it over. I need you alive and I want to continue our project too. Do you give me your word you’ll let this go and not retaliate against me?”
“Absolutely. It was an honest mistake. I can see why you were concerned and how it all happened. Thankfully all I ended up with was a headache.”
Edward seemed relieved. Roberto leaned forward to allow Edward to cut the twist tie off his other wrist and loosen the ropes. He sliced the restraints on Roberto’s ankles and the man was free.
Roberto massaged his wrist and feet, then stood unsteadily. After a few minutes he worked out the stiffness in his joints and looked at his watch. It was six p.m.
Edward put the food wrappers back in the sack and stuck out his hand. “I apologize.”
They shook. “Apology accepted. Let’s move ahead.”
Roberto would deal with all this. Edward’s retribution would come.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Edward researched the legends surrounding contemporaries of Arthur before continuing the work on Guinevere’s diary. He was seeking more information on Lamorak and his family.
Lamorak’s father, King Pellinore, had bravely fought Angles and Saxons from his bastion in Anglesey. Like his father before him, Lamorak had many victories to his name. At least three of his brothers were already aligned with Arthur. After Pellinore’s death, Arthur asked Lamorak to join his siblings at the Round Table. The young man eagerly accepted and soon became one of the strongest and bravest of the mighty band.
Edward opened Guinevere’s journal, read her description of events in 500 AD, and learned something astounding.
The father of Lamorak, King Pellinore, rests in peace in London, in the graveyard of the tiny Church of St. Mary Axe. I expected Sir Percival to inter his brother there as well. But Percival convinced my husband Lamorak would prefer the beautiful vistas around Camelot. To my surprise, Arthur gave approval for the knight to be buried here, despite his having succumbed to my seduction. His funeral was held weeks ago and today the knights will bear Lamorak’s body to the abbey. A special sarcophagus has been constructed for my brave soldier. He will remain at Camelot for eternity. Lamorak, we had only one glorious night. But you were the best of all. And now you rest, the eternal Protector of your King.
Edward was both confused and excited at more and more validation. Lamorak’s father, King Pellinore, was buried in London? Was the body in the crypt then Pellinore’s? Not according to Guinevere – she said Pellinore was in the graveyard and that Lamorak had had a special sarcophagus built for him. The sarcophagus below the bookshop was inscribed “Eternal Protector of my King,” just as Guinevere said it was. She’d obviously seen the inscription herself. If that stone coffin started out on the isle of Avalon – in Glastonbury, over a hundred miles away – when, how and for what purpose would it have been moved to London?
If Pellinore’s remains were found, it would be one more confirmation of the Arthurian legends. But that was impossible. It was inconceivable that a body buried in a fifth-century churchyard would be found today. The interment was over fifteen hundred years ago – buildings had been erected, razed and rebuilt over the centuries. Today there was no trace of the cemetery Guinevere mentioned. There’d be no way to figure out where it had been, much less find a particular grave.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something just wasn’t right.
Every Friday Philippe emailed the weekly report, the fifty-page spreadsheet Roberto relied upon when he was away from the office. The summary gave him an overview of his expansive portfolio of investments and earnings, deposits and withdrawals, income and expenses. Today Roberto flipped from one page to another and back again, trying to figure out what didn’t make sense.
He was a genius with numbers and he knew these accounts by heart. Today something just didn’t add up. Every so often there was a line item that he didn’t understand. With over three hundred million dollars in play, there were movements of money every single day. Some were significant, others small. Large amounts of dollars, dinars, pounds or yen were routinely transferred into another investment, another country, another currency. The movements were so commonplace Roberto quickly skimmed over most of them. But now and then he checked both sides of a particular transaction just so he’d stay on top of things.
In the latest report he’d picked up negatives in one account or another with no corresponding positives. Money moved out, but there was no offsetting accounting entry showing where it went.
There had to be a simple answer. Philippe had been directing all this for years while Roberto sat across the office from him in Lucerne and he’d never had questions about the mechanics of any transaction. But today four small entries didn’t tally. There could be many reasons – a computer glitch, human error, a number inadvertently omitted in the complex spreadsheets. He had no doubt there was a simple explanation and he wanted to believe Philippe would have it.
——
Roberto got a quiet ding and glanced at his phone. There was one word, texted as usual from an untraceable phone in another country.
“Nine.”
Today’s was the second wet-ops assignment he’d received since he and Edward began working together. The first text message had said, “Two.” It came immediately after his confinement in the crypt and it would require a trip to the United States. Roberto declined. He couldn’t risk leaving the deranged bookseller in charge of things. He responded to the request for Juan Carlos’s services by texting the French word Non.
Now there was another request, this time for an operation in Moscow. He hadn’t been back there in years, and things had settled down with Edward. His dark side, the dangerous part of him, hadn’t peeked out in a while.
Roberto had spent weeks underground cataloging, pushing the GPR device and looking for whatever might be hidden. It was time for a change, some fresh air, some danger. Juan Carlos needed to emerge for a while. So he texted “Oui” to accept the job. He would travel to Moscow next weekend and check out the situation.
Roberto told Edward he had to return to Lucerne for several days for meetings. The bookseller assured Roberto things would be fine until his return.
After one quick glance at TrickTracker, Edward knew Roberto was lying.
Edward Russell was a highly intelligent and incredibly eccentric individual. Two people lived inside his head. The one he now compared to Dr. Jekyll was fortunately dominant. The other personality had no name – that one both frightened and excited Edward the times he appeared. Thankfully that wasn’t very often.
Edward was determined to learn the truth about his partner. When he had been tied up in the crypt, Roberto said he used an alias and had secret
s of his own. He even admitted killing someone. Was all that made up so Edward would free him? He wanted to find out who this “Swiss businessman” really was and what his motives were for teaming up with Edward Russell.
He found a fascinating product called TrickTracker on the Internet. It was marketed to jealous spouses; it allowed one person to spy on another’s cellphone. The website promised it was easy to install – you needed another person’s unlocked phone for only ninety seconds. Once installed, the app was invisible: it wasn’t displayed anywhere on the target phone. TrickTracker let you see the other person’s texts, emails, call lists and websites visited – any activity on his or her phone. With GPS technology it also told you where the device was. And you could spy using your computer, a tablet or even your own smartphone!
Don’t be the last to know, the homepage blared. Their secrets won’t be safe from you any longer!
He paid three hundred dollars for the software package at a spy shop in Leicester Square and bought a throwaway cell phone. He put the software on his laptop then downloaded an app. He practiced opening the program on his new cell phone several times. Finally he had it down; he could do it in under two minutes. If Roberto ever left his phone unlocked, Edward could merely press a button on his own phone. Everything would happen automatically after that. It sounded simple. And it had been.
The opportunity came one afternoon as Roberto crouched down in the Roman passageway to examine an inscription. He got a ding and pulled the phone from his back pocket. He glanced at an email then put down the phone. Edward was a foot away, copying words Roberto read from the wall carving. Roberto’s phone was unlocked and Edward acted quickly. He pressed a button on his own cellphone, picked up Roberto’s and started the process.
A few minutes later Roberto stood and explained the Latin inscription he’d seen. Edward couldn’t concentrate – he was anxious to go upstairs and see if TrickTracker worked.
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