by Peter David
“So what are you saying, Mr. President?” asked the secretary of defense. “I mean, we can’t just put President Penn back on his yacht and let him sail off to sea. Now that the world’s eyes are on him, other sailing vessels will track him down. Potentially hostile vessels.”
“Wasn’t that a risk when he was sailing around with no Secret Service protection?”
“Yes, but an acceptable risk. As you know, we were keeping tabs on him despite the public denials. There were regular flybys, monitoring devices hidden on the ship to keep tabs on its whereabouts. We all knew that Mrs. Penn had recovered, but we simply kept it quiet as an issue of national security.”
“Is it possible that the photos came as a result of some sort of leak in our own security system?” Stockwell demanded, but before anyone could respond, he shook it off. “Forget that. It doesn’t matter right now. We’ve plenty of time to check the open barn door to find out how the horse escaped. For now…you’re right,” he reluctantly admitted. “If the last thing we need is Americans firing on Americans in a riot situation, the second-to-last thing we need is a former president being taken prisoner by a hostile country…or, knowing him, pirates or something. He can’t stay here. He can’t go to his home. Camp David would just generate the same sorts of mob scenes.” He drummed his fingers and stood. Everyone else naturally sprang to his or her feet. “Gentlemen, I don’t care where we stash him at his point. Find someplace yourselves. Hell, ask him if you have to. But find a place.”
“Mr. President…”
It had been Ron who had spoken up. He had remained silent for the entire meeting, probably because he knew that he had assumed a prominent place on Stockwell’s shit list. Like an angry lizard, Stockwell turned and fixed an unblinking stare upon him. “Yes, Ron?”
“I believe…I know of a place that’s secure.”
“Really. And why haven’t you mentioned it sooner?”
“Because,” Cordoba admitted, “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d believe me.”
Slowly, Stockwell sat back down. Everyone else did as well. Stockwell, leaning forward, interlaced his fingers, and said, “Right now…you’d be amazed what I’d believe. Try me.”
THE MOOD IN the Lincoln Bedroom was grim. Arthur, Gwen, and Percival watched CNN in silence as the scenes of growing insanity were portrayed in glorious and nauseating detail.
“Shut it off,” Gwen said finally, lowering her gaze so she wouldn’t have to look at it.
“To what end?” asked Percival. “If we turn off the set, we’ll just hear the noise outside. It’s a clear night; sound is carrying nicely.”
“We have to get out of here,” said Arthur. “That’s all there is to it. We have to leave the building.”
“Like Elvis.”
“Yes, Gwen. Just like Elvis,” Arthur agreed firmly, then cast an inquiring glance toward Percival. Percival shook his head slightly, and mouthed, I’ll explain later.
There was a knock at the door and, moments later, a distinguished and affable-looking black man in his early fifties entered the room, pushing a rolling cart with several covered plates upon it, along with a bottle of wine and a carafe of water. “Good evening, Brady,” Arthur said.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” replied Brady. He had been one of the head stewards for as long as anyone could remember, reliable for his impeccable service and discretion. He went about setting up the food.
“Things getting a bit exciting outside, aren’t they, Brady,” asked Gwen.
“Yes, ma’am. They are.”
Brady continued on about his business, and his surprisingly taciturn manner caught Arthur’s attention.
“What’s Merlin’s feelings on all this?” asked Percival.
Gwen shrugged. “The great mentor and advisor has been locked in his room meditating.”
“So Merlin shows up…and then vanishes?”
“Yup. Guess it’s a wash.”
NIMUE!”
Merlin was shouting into the full bathtub, and when he got no response, turned and bellowed into the sink that he’d also filled with water. For good measure he’d also filled up the bidet and a washing basin, plus naturally he also had the toilet to bear his wrath. “Nimue!” he kept calling, moving from one container of water to another to another. “Stop playing around! This is serious business! You can’t just show up out of nowhere, drop a warning about the Spear, and vanish! If you care at all about Arthur or me, then you’ll give me more information than—”
“Is…everything all right in here?”
He turned and saw a couple of Secret Service men standing in the doorway of the bathroom, looking around suspiciously. They hadn’t drawn their weapons, but their hands were hovering in the general direction of the inside of their jackets.
“Why wouldn’t everything be fine?” Merlin demanded. “Who the blazes are you?”
“Agents Castor,” one of them indicated himself, and then the other, “and Pollux, sir.”
“We heard you shouting,” said Pollux. “We thought perhaps you weren’t alone.”
“Well, obviously, I am. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Did you lose something?” The Secret Service men clearly weren’t sure how to address Merlin. His size and apparent age certainly seemed to indicate the inevitable slight condescension adults normally use toward children. But there was nothing remotely childlike in Merlin’s manner or deportment, underscoring the feeling of “wrongness” that people invariably got when interacting with him for any length of time.
“Not something. Someone.” With a sigh of exasperation, Merlin said to them with the full knowledge that they wouldn’t have the slightest notion of what he was talking about, “I’m trying to find the Lady of the Lake. But she’s not showing herself.”
“There’s no lake in here, sir,” said Castor.
“Yes, I know there’s no lake here,” Merlin said pityingly. “She can show up out of any body of water.”
“Well then, sir, you might be better off checking the Potomac.”
It was difficult for Merlin to tell whether the agent was yanking him around or not. “Not likely. She tends to prefer more stationary bodies of water rather than anything with a strong current.”
The two agents exchanged a look. “The Reflecting Pool?” said Pollux.
“Just what I was thinking. The reflecting pool near the Washington Monument.”
Merlin’s mouth opened, then shut without saying anything at first. He stared at them for a moment more, then said, “My God…that’s…a good idea. That’s…extraordinarily good.”
“Thank you,” said Castor. “Unfortunately, we’re in a state of lockdown at the moment. Under normal circumstances we could escort you there, but these are far from normal circumstances.”
“Then again,” Pollux suggested, “you could no doubt transport yourself there through…what?” He turned to the first Secret Service man. “A simple self-relocation spell?”
“That would do it, I’d think.”
Merlin’s incredulity was growing. “How did you become so familiar with sorcery?”
“Sir,” Castor said stiffly, “you don’t seriously think you’re the first guest, or even resident, of this building who is conversant in the mystical arts, do you? Our experience with the occult is hardly limited to the occasional first lady’s ouija board. We have to be ready for anything in our line of work.”
“Gentlemen,” Merlin said with complete sincerity, “I don’t often say this but…I’m impressed.”
“We’re Secret Service, sir,” said Pollux. “We’re trained to be impressive.”
CHAPTRE
THE NINTH
WHAT I DON’T understand,” said Percival, pouring a glass of wine for himself in the Lincoln Bedroom, “is that Merlin and I spoke about the Grail ages ago…and he claimed to know almost nothing about it. Now he purports to know all about it. Which is true?”
“Probably all of it…and none of it,” said Gwen. “That’s how wizards,
or at least this wizard, acts most of the—”
“Brady.” Arthur interrupted Gwen, which was unusual for him since generally his conduct when it came to his wife was the height of courtesy. At this point he simply wasn’t listening to what she had been saying, since his attention had been focused elsewhere. Brady had been involved in setting out the food that he’d brought in, doing so briskly and efficiently as was his wont. But Arthur, even though he was seated across the room, had perceived that something was out of kilter in the man’s demeanor, and now he was on his feet and crossing the room. His actions naturally captured Percival’s and Gwen’s complete attention. “Brady…is something wrong?”
Brady, normally the most convivial of gentlemen, clearly could not bring himself to look directly at Arthur. “Nothing’s wrong, Mr. President…”
“With all respect, Brady…I think you’re not being entirely candid with me.”
“I just…” With an effort, he turned and looked at Arthur. “I…don’t think it would be appropriate for me to—”
“Devil take propriety. You’re a good man, Brady. You’ve done nothing except live an exemplary life of service to this nation’s leaders.” He squared his shoulders. “If you’re upset with me about something, or want to tell me that you think I’m mad as a hatter, you should not feel any reticence to—”
“Upset?” Brady looked at him in confusion, and then flashed a small smile at the notion. “Mr. President, I have…as you say…served quite a number of our leaders. And I’m not trying to blow smoke up your skirt when I say that, of all of them, you are the single most decent man I’ve ever encountered. The most scrupulously honest, the most…”
Abruptly emotion overwhelmed him. It was as if the strength went out of his legs, and Brady was suddenly sitting before he even realized that he was going to be doing so. It was only through Arthur’s quick movement to slide a chair under him that prevented him from sinking to the floor. “Brady,” he said softly, “what’s really happening here?”
“It’s not appropriate for me to discuss it with—”
“Brady, I’m ordering you to tell me. Not that I’m entirely sure my orders carry any weight, but still…”
Brady shook his head, and now Gwen came forward and crouched so that she was at his eye level. “Brady,” she said, one hand resting upon his shoulder, “Arthur’s just trying to help. And he wouldn’t be asking you if he didn’t want to know.”
“It’s just…ma’am, in all the years I’ve been doing this job, I have never—ever—asked anyone for a single favor. And I’ve been in the presence of a lot of powerful men who could have granted a lot of powerful favors. So I don’t see that it’s right for me to start now…”
“The Grail,” Percival spoke up tonelessly. “This has to do with the Grail.”
Brady nodded without responding.
“Brady…” Arthur prompted him.
At first, Brady didn’t reply. But then, before Arthur could speak again, Brady said with an unmistakable tone of bitterness, “I’m a religious man, sir. Go to church every Sunday. Pray to our Lord. Ask for nothing except His love. Tried the best I could to conduct myself in His teachings, as He would want. Can’t say that I lived a totally blameless life. What man has? I’ve tripped up here and there, but still, I think the scales tip more in my favor than against when it’s all tallied up. I’ve tried to obey all the commandments.” His voice trailed off, but no one in the room urged him to speak, certain that he would continue on his own. They were right. “My wife is dying, Mr. President. Stomach cancer, eating her from the inside out. My Linda is the sweetest woman in the world…”
“I remember her. I met her once.”
“…and she’s never done anything to deserve anything like this. She keeps saying that God tosses you only as much as he thinks you’re capable of dealing with. She says there’s some sort of grand plan to all this. But I’m thinking that if this is a plan, then it’s a damned bad one. You know the commandment about worshipping no other gods…?”
“Of course,” said Arthur.
Brady looked up at him with quiet passion reflected in his face. “I would be willing to throw aside that commandment. I would be willing to worship you, Mr. President, and throw all my prayers and supplications to you, and sing you hosannas and praise you in the highest. Because in the past six months I’ve been doing that with the God I’ve been worshipping all my life…and I’m tired of his answer to my prayers being ‘no.’ I need to worship someone who gives a damn, and I think that’s you, not Him.”
“I’m not looking for worship, Brady.”
“That may be, Mr. President. But I’m looking for a miracle. And I wasn’t going to ask you, and swore to myself over and over again that I wouldn’t. Guess I don’t have the world’s best poker face,” he added ruefully.
There was silence for a moment, then Arthur said, “Percival.”
“Yes, Highness?”
“Do you have the Grail?”
“Of course, Highness.” Percival produced the Holy Grail seemingly out of thin air. Arthur wasn’t sure just how Percival managed to do that, and he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know.
Brady’s eyes widened when he saw it. “Is…is that…?”
“It is. Where is your wife?”
“She’s at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore…”
“Then that is where we’re going.”
“Arthur,” Gwen said nervously, “the White House is locked down. They may not be willing to just let us head off to Maryland.”
“Then we’ll find a way,” Arthur told her. “Come.” With the utter confidence that stemmed from being a warrior king, Arthur headed toward the door. But before he made it halfway across the room, the door opened abruptly to reveal Ron Cordoba and several Federal agents.
“Ah! Ron! Excellent timing,” said Arthur briskly. “We have a situation—”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“We need to get to Johns Hopkins…”
He was astounded when Ron shook his head and realized that there had never been an occasion when Ron Cordoba refused him anything. “That’s not going to happen, sir. We have to get you out of the White House, and we have to do it in a highly visible manner.”
“I know that. I’m not blind, Ron. Circumstances outside have become untenable, and if I don’t get out of the capital soon, things are going to go very badly. But first thing’s first. Brady’s wife—”
“I know the condition of his wife, sir…Brady, again, my condolences,” said Ron, and Brady nodded in acknowledgment. “But right now, the only thing that matters is getting you to a secure location.”
“Where?” demanded Percival.
“The only place that’s not connected with the US government, but that we can be certain no one will be able to find you.”
Gwen looked blank, but Arthur understood immediately. “Of course,” he said, and when Gwen turned to him in bewilderment, he simply said, “The castle.”
“Of course,” she echoed him.
Percival was still confused. “Castle…?”
“Later, Percival. Trust me: Later. Ron…there will be plenty of time for that. But first…”
“Sir,” Ron said sharply, “you don’t understand. There is no ‘first.’ There’s no bargaining. There are no side trips to anywhere except to your destination. That’s all there is to it.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, and a sense of danger crackled in the air. “You…are dictating terms…to me?”
“Sir…”
“To me? How dare you…!”
“Arthur! What do you think you’re going to do, huh? Draw Excalibur and cut your way out of here? Kill them? Kill me?”
No one moved. Arthur glared at Ron with such fury that Gwen wasn’t sure whether her husband might indeed yank out his invincible sword and bisect his former chief of staff.
Ron spoke first, visibly fighting to restrain himself. “Arthur…there’s no choice here. None. This order is coming straight from Presi
dent Stockwell. He wants you out immediately.”
“If it came straight from him, then I will go straight to him and convince him otherwise.”
“He doesn’t want to see you.”
“Unfortunately, the feeling is not mutual. Take me to him immediately, or I’ll find him myself.”
“How do you plan to do that? Hack your way into the Oval Office? Do you want to be the first US president who was shot down by his own Secret Service agents?”
Arthur was about to respond when a gentle hand rested upon his forearm. He turned and saw tragedy in Brady’s eyes. “Mr. President,” Brady said, and his voice was quavering, but there was firmness in it yet. “Mr. President…I…I can’t let this happen. Because there’s people out there”—and he pointed in the general direction of the crowds outside the White House—“who are just as deserving as Linda. Maybe…I don’t know…maybe even more so. It’s not right for me to play upon your sympathy…”
“You played upon nothing, Brady.”
“Yes, I did, Mr. President, even if you’re too much of a gentleman to admit it. I should never have said anything. I shouldn’t have put you in this…this impossible position. The bottom line, sir, is…I’m an American. And my commander-in-chief has given an order that Mr. Cordoba and these agents are trying to carry out. If I’m responsible in any way for them not doing that…I just…I can’t allow that to happen.”
“Not even to save your wife? You don’t think she’d want that?”
“With the greatest of respect, sir…was your wife happy that you resigned your office because of her?”
Arthur and Gwen exchanged a long look. They both knew the answer, recalling when she had faced him after coming out of her coma and chewed him out for making such sacrifices on her behalf.