The Secret of Excalibur_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  The raging fireball roiled through the foyer, every pane of glass shattering and raining down onto the esplanade. “Bloody hell!” said Chase, looking back at the smoking structure.

  “It’s an improvement,” his grandmother said quietly.

  The Jaguar made another turn, into the exit road from a small parking lot. On the far side, Chase realized, was the road where he’d been caught by a speed camera less than five minutes earlier—though it felt like five hours. From there, the dual highway out of town was only a couple of roundabouts away.

  He threw the Focus around the corner after the Jag, knowing that once the convertible was free of the twisting urban roads he would never catch it. The orange-haired woman turned right to head uphill, out of the town center. He followed, a car coming down the hill barely missing him.

  More police sirens, growing louder …

  A roundabout ahead. The Jaguar went left—but racing straight for Chase were two more police cars, the lead one swerving the wrong way around the roundabout to block his path as the second went the other way, boxing him in—

  “Fuck a duck!” Nan shrieked.

  “Nan!” yelped Chase in shock as he yanked the handbrake—

  The skidding Ford smashed headlong into the side of the first police car. The air bags deployed with a bang, cushioning the occupants of the front seats. Nina threw herself flat just before impact and was flung into the rear foot well, groceries ricocheting around her.

  It had been a relatively low-speed collision, but Chase was still shaken. He sat up as the air bags deflated, and saw his grandmother bent over beside him. “Nan! Are you okay?”

  She slowly raised her head. “I think …”

  “What?”

  “I think I just wee’d a little bit.”

  Chase almost laughed, before remembering Nina. He looked around for her … and found himself staring down the barrel of an MP-5 submachine gun.

  Not just one. Four policemen in flak jackets surrounded the car, weapons raised, fingers on triggers. An Armed Response Unit.

  “Armed police!” one of them screamed. “Put your hands up! Now!”

  Chase carefully raised his hands, nodding for his grandmother to do the same. “Nice one, lads. You stopped the wrong car. We’re the good guys.”

  “Shut up!” The policeman looked into the rear of the car. “You in the back! Show me your hands, slowly! Get up!”

  Nina obeyed, shaking glass out of her hair as she spoke to Chase. “And you said Bournemouth was boring …”

  SIX

  Well, well,” said a familiar voice. “If it isn’t Eddie Chase. Or should that be Mad Max?”

  Chase looked up as the cell door opened. “You took your time,” he said with a tired grin. Jim “Mac” McCrimmon, Chase’s former commanding officer in the SAS, had been the person he’d contacted with his phone call after being arrested.

  “I ended up burning a lot of midnight oil at MI6.” The gray-haired Scotsman entered the cell, and Chase stood to shake his hand. Mac was dressed in a dark tailored suit, which gave away no clue that one of his legs was artificial below the knee. He carried several folded newspapers under one arm. “You seem to have stirred up something rather large—the Yanks are very interested in it.”

  “How come?”

  “No idea, but Peter Alderley’s giving me an update soon.”

  “Alderley?” Chase groaned at the mention of the MI6 agent. “Oh, God, you got that twat involved? He must be laughing his arse off at the thought of me spending the night in a police cell.”

  “There was some amusement, yes. But he also wants to know when he’s going to get his wedding invitation.”

  “Why would he even want to come? He can’t stand us.”

  A smirk crinkled Mac’s craggy face. “Oh, he likes Nina just fine. It’s you he can’t stand. He wants to give Nina his commiserations.”

  “The cheeky bastard! And after he got promoted because of us … Where is Nina, anyway? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.” Mac gestured at the door. “She’s waiting in reception. Along with your grandmother.”

  “What, I call you and then I’m the last one you get out?”

  “Ladies first, Eddie. Where are your manners?”

  A policeman led them to the station’s reception area. “Eddie!” said Nina as he entered, jumping up to embrace him. “Are you okay?”

  “Just got worked over with a rubber hose, but apart from that I’m fine,” he joked. He looked past her to see his grandmother sitting on a bench nearby. “Nan! Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine, Edward, thank you. I’ve never been arrested before, it was all very strange! Everyone was very nice, though, and they even brought me tea in my cell. It’ll be quite a story to tell the other girls next time we play bridge.”

  “Thank God. If anyone’d been nasty to my nan, there really would have been trouble.” He became aware of activity outside the glass front doors. “What’s going on?”

  “Press,” Mac replied disdainfully. He handed Chase and Nina the newspapers. “You’ve become big news, unfortunately. Don’t worry about that lot outside, we can slap a category-five DA notice on them to shut them up now that the security services are involved, but it happened too late to stop this morning’s papers.”

  “Aah!” Nina cried in dismay, seeing her official IHA publicity photo smiling witlessly back at her from the front page of the Guardian under the headline “Chaos in Bournemouth: Discoverer of Atlantis arrested following murder.” “I wasn’t arrested for it, I witnessed it!”

  “You think that’s bad …” said Chase. He held up the Sun, the tabloid bearing the banner headline “The Bourne-Mouth Identity.” Some tourist with a quick shutter finger—and a canny commercial sense—had caught the Focus as it smashed through the remains of the fruit stall, and the picture now dominated the page. Chase was just a shadow in the driver’s seat, and most of his grandmother’s face was obscured by the windshield pillar, but Nina was clearly visible in the back. The paper had even helpfully included an inset of her shaking hands with President Dalton.

  Chase read out the opening paragraph. “‘One day, she was at the White House to accept the highest honor in America from the president. The next, she was in a high-speed car chase and gun battle through a quiet seaside town. Famed archaeologist Nina Wilde, discoverer of the lost city of Atlantis, was arrested yesterday after a trail of destruction through Bournemouth left three dead and dozens injured …’ Yeah, this isn’t good.”

  “Oh, ya think?” Nina wailed. “And Atlantis isn’t a city, it’s the whole damn island! Why does everyone get that wrong?”

  Chase hugged her. “Priorities, love.”

  “I know, I know. But aaargh!”

  A fusillade of camera flashes from outside caught everyone’s attention. Elizabeth Chase stormed up the steps and threw open the door, furious eyes locked onto her brother. “You!” she yelled. Holly scurried in behind her, worried.

  “Hi, Lizzie,” said Chase with false breeziness. “You saw today’s papers, then?”

  She shoved past him and crouched before her grandmother. “Nan, are you okay?”

  “I’m all right, love,” Nan assured her. “A bit shaken up, that’s all.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She bowed her head in relief, then whirled to confront Chase. “What the hell were you thinking? You stupid bastard! You could have killed her!”

  “Yeah, I’m fine too, thanks,” Chase replied with chilly sarcasm.

  “Actually, Elizabeth, I’m afraid this is all my fault,” said Nina.

  Elizabeth snatched the newspaper from Chase’s hand, jabbing a finger at the picture. “Oh, so you were driving the car from the backseat?” She crumpled the paper into a roll and batted it angrily against Chase, prompting the policeman to politely but firmly pull her away. “I thought you couldn’t possibly do anything more selfish and irresponsible than you already have, but this, this …” She stood silently for a moment. “God! I ha
ve never been more … disgusted with you in my entire life.”

  “Elizabeth!” Nan snapped, standing up with an obvious effort. Holly hurried to help her. “I’m all right, and so are Edward and Nina. That’s all that matters.”

  “No, it’s not all that matters, Nan!” Elizabeth said. “People were killed! And it’s all his fault! You think he’s going to explain why to their families?”

  “Actually,” said Mac, raising his voice with authority, “the two men who died while trying to kill Eddie and Nina—and your grandmother, I might add—are the reason my colleagues are so interested in what happened.”

  “And who the hell are you?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “Ma’am,” said Mac, bowing slightly. The gesture somewhat disarmed Elizabeth. “Jim McCrimmon, at your service. I used to be in the SAS, but I’m now … well, let’s say associated with Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. Or MI6, if you prefer.”

  “MI6?” said Holly, eyes widening. “You’re a spy?”

  “Mac,” said Chase, “this is Holly, my niece … and you just met my sister, Lizzie.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  Mac turned to address Holly. “No, I’m not a spy—your uncle would probably think a lot less of me if I were. I’m more of a consultant.”

  “Who saves people’s lives occasionally,” Nina added.

  “And my house still isn’t fully repaired because of it … But these two raised quite a stir at Vauxhall Cross once their identities were discovered. Not so much from us, but we share intelligence with the Americans, and they got very excited about it.” He looked through the glass doors at the reporters outside. “But I think we should discuss this somewhere more private.”

  “We can just leave?” Nina asked in surprise.

  Mac smiled. “You’re free to go, for the moment. The Home Office has arranged for all charges to be dropped. It seems the American government is quite keen to talk to you about these men—and about your friend Herr Rust.” He lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. But why do they want to know about Bernd?”

  “I have absolutely no idea—but I’ll hopefully find out soon. Is there somewhere we can go?”

  “We can go to my house,” Holly suggested. Elizabeth seemed about to object, but a look from Nan silenced her.

  Mac nodded. “That sounds ideal.”

  • • •

  Chase gazed out of the front window of Elizabeth’s house, taking in what Mac had just relayed to Nina and him after a phone conversation. “So this guy Yosarin and his mate the Jeep driver, if they’re working as security goons for some Russian billionaire, why are they in Bournemouth shooting at my nan?” He turned to face Mac. “Alderley doesn’t know a fucking thing, does he?”

  “Mac, I know this is kind of classified,” said Nina, “but is there any chance Catherine or Holly could sit in? Eddie’s so much more polite when they’re around.”

  “Afraid not, but I share your sentiments,” Mac replied. “No, I get the impression that Alderley’s been shoved aside by the Americans, and he’s not happy about it.”

  “Yeah,” said Chase, toying with Nina’s ponytail. “I know how annoying it is taking orders from Yanks.”

  “Hey!” Nina said.

  Mac smiled, then sat up, seeing something outside the window. “But I think these people might be able to provide some more illumination.”

  A car had stopped outside, a large black Lincoln limousine. Chase could see its license plate, the unusual format classifying it as a diplomatic vehicle. “Oh, ’ello, here come the Feds.” Nina got up to join him, watching as two men emerged from the car and marched up the drive. The doorbell rang; after a brief exchange, the living room door opened and Elizabeth peered cautiously inside.

  “There’re some people here to see you,” she said. “They said they’re from the U.S. embassy.”

  Mac stood. “Please, show them in, Ms. Chase.”

  Elizabeth led two suited men into the room. The first was in his fifties, with a thatch of thinning brown hair and a harried air. He extended a hand to Nina. “Dr. Wilde,” he said, before looking uncertainly between Chase and Mac. “Mr. … Chase?” Chase pointed at himself. “Thanks.” Shaking hands with Chase, he introduced himself, his accent Bostonian. “I’m Clarence Peach, from the Department of Security Cooperation at the U.S. embassy in London.”

  “Peachy,” said Chase, suppressing a smirk. From Peach’s weary expression, he’d endured endless jokes about his name.

  The second man was younger, in his midthirties, and to Nina far more impressive to look at. He was a well-built six foot plus, square-jawed and handsome with intense green eyes and jet-black hair. “Dr. Wilde?” he asked, deep voice betraying a distinctive New Orleans drawl. “I’m Jack Mitchell, from DARPA—Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency,” he clarified, seeing her puzzled look, before his voice changed to a pitch-perfect imitation of Troy McClure, the washed-up actor from The Simpsons. “You may remember us from such inventions as the Internet—not just for pornography anymore!”

  Nina laughed. “Hi! Good to meet you.”

  “And you must be Eddie Chase.”

  “Guess I must,” said Chase, not nearly as impressed as Nina by the newcomer. “So why’s DARPA interested in finding Excalibur? Thought you were just into building killbots and microwave pain beams these days.”

  “There’s a lot more to Bernd Rust’s research than ancient relics, and I’ll explain why in a moment. But unfortunately, that information is need-to-know classified.” He turned to Mac. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room while I discuss it. Sorry, sir.”

  Mac was surprised. “I have a level-five security classification.”

  “I know, sir.”

  Shooting Nina and Chase a look, Mac left the room. Mitchell gestured for Nina and Chase to sit down, then opened his slim metal briefcase and removed a folder. “Do you recognize any of these people?” he asked, handing several photographs to them.

  Nina immediately spotted the bearded man whom she had chased through the hotel. “That’s the guy who stole my laptop!”

  Mitchell nodded. “Oleg Maximov, aka ‘the Bulldozer.’ Former Russian Spetsnaz special forces trooper, noted for extreme physical strength and also extremely limited intelligence—even before he got shot in the head in Chechnya.” He indicated the expansive scar on the man’s forehead. “Nobody quite knows how he survived it, but he did, and he’s now got a metal plate holding half his skull together … and a seriously screwed-up nervous system.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He suffered some sort of brain damage that affected his pleasure-pain response,” Mitchell explained. “Basically, when he experiences pain he feels it as pleasure.”

  “Ew!” Nina said, wincing. “That explains why me hitting him in the face with a fire extinguisher turned him on so much, I guess.”

  Chase gave her an admiring look. “You smacked a Spetsnaz bloke with a fire extinguisher?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good for you!” He pointed at one of the other photos. “Hey, she was the getaway driver.”

  Nina examined the picture. “She was the one who shot Bernd as well—only she had orange hair.” The sullen woman in the picture, who looked about thirty, had hair that was mostly purple, with long green-dyed strands hanging down over her face.

  “Her name’s Dominika Romanova,” said Mitchell. “She used to be a sniper for the FSB—the successor to the KGB—until she decided she could get more money in the private sector.” He took the photos back, shuffling through them. “She and Maximov worked with Yosarin and Belenkov, these two charmers—” he held up two more photos, both showing unattractive and menacing-looking men—“who got blown up in the Bournemouth IMAX theater yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, their IDs were more fireproof than they were.”

  “So why did they kill Bernd?” Nina demanded. “What was in his files that they wanted so bad?”

  Mitchell took
another pair of pictures from his case. “All four of them work for this man, Aleksey Kruglov.” The picture revealed another unappealing man, older than the others, with a wide mouth and cold eyes. “Kruglov’s old-school KGB, but he now works as a ‘security specialist,’ by which I mean head thug, for this guy.” He gave them the last photo.

  Nina frowned. The man in the picture appeared to be in his late forties, with a trim brown goatee and narrow rectangular wire-framed glasses. He also seemed vaguely familiar. “I’ve seen him somewhere …”

  “Probably in the news,” said Peach. “That’s Leonid Vaskovich. He’s a Russian energy baron—one of the new breed of oligarchs. Personal fortune of about eight billion dollars.”

  “Major player in Russian oil and gas,” Mitchell added, “and currently working very closely with the administration in Moscow with an eye to becoming part of it. He’s a hard-line ultranationalist who wants to make Mother Russia the number-one world power and is willing to do whatever he thinks is necessary to achieve that.” His gaze fixed on Nina. “He’s also the man your friend Rust made the mistake of trusting when he went looking for backers.”

  Nina stared at the picture. “What does finding King Arthur’s sword have to do with a Russian oil baron?”

  Mitchell retrieved the pictures and returned them to his case before answering. “Dr. Wilde … have you ever heard of something called ‘earth energy’?”

  Nina’s heart sank. Was that what Rust thought he’d found? “Are you serious?”

  “Extremely.”

  “What’s earth energy?” asked Chase. “Sounds like some hippie-dippie thing.”

  “It is,” Nina sighed. “It’s things like ley lines, dragon lines, feng shui—the idea that there’s some kind of energy that’s channeled along specific paths around the earth.” Her disappointment grew even as she spoke; she couldn’t believe Rust had wasted his time on such nonsense—and that it had somehow gotten him killed. “It’s crap, basically. Crackpot pseudoscience.”

  “Actually,” said Mitchell, “that may not be entirely true.”