The Secret of Excalibur_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  • • •

  Kurt brought a long-handled rubber mallet and a pickaxe. Chase delivered the first blow, slamming the mallet against the wall. Staumberg winced, but the stones caved backward, revealing that Mitzi’s theory had been correct—there was indeed a space behind the wall. Another blow, and one stone fell away into the blackness beyond with a crunch.

  Chase waited for the dust to settle, then shone a flashlight through the hole. “It’s not that deep; I can see the back wall. Less than three feet.” He shifted position, angling the beam downward. “And there’s something in here! Looks like boxes under a tarp.” He moved back. “Jack, give me a hand.”

  Mitchell obliged, hooking the pick behind more of the stones and pulling them out until the hole was just large enough for Chase to edge his upper body through. Light in one hand, he carefully lifted a corner of the dusty tarpaulin.

  Grubby wooden crates rested underneath. The stenciled symbol of a swastika immediately told him the local legends were true.

  “I think what we’ve got here is … Nazi gold,” he announced as he slid back out.

  Staumberg appeared to be stricken by a sudden migraine, and Nina understood why. There were international laws relating to the discovery of Nazi materials—especially those that had been stolen from other countries. “We’ll have to tell the Austrian government about this. I’m sorry.”

  “I know, I know.” Staumberg rubbed his forehead. “But can you please give us time to move our, ah, equipment to another room before you do?”

  “I think that would be fair, considering how helpful you’ve been.”

  He smiled in faint relief. Meanwhile, Chase and Mitchell expanded the hole, pulling out more stones to reveal six crates in all. Chase removed the tarpaulin, finding a leather-bound ledger hidden beneath. A brief flick through the pages revealed an itemized list, all in German. “What do you reckon this is?”

  Staumberg examined it. “It is a list—a list of everything in the crates!”

  “German efficiency,” Chase joked.

  Staumberg’s eyes widened as he read further. “It really is treasure—there is gold, silver, jewelry, religious relics …”

  “What about the sword?” Mitchell demanded. “Does it mention a sword?”

  The Austrian kept reading. “Yes, here! ‘Jeweled sword hilt with gold and silver decorations, blade broken. Obtained Koroneou, claimed to be of historic significance.’ There is also an estimated value in marks, and—and it even says which crate it is in.” He looked through the hole as Chase directed the flashlight beam over the stenciled numbers on each box. “That one!”

  Mitchell and Chase quickly removed the crate and placed it on the floor, using the pickaxe as an impromptu crowbar to pry it open. Inside were several objects wrapped in waxed paper.

  “It’s got to be this,” said Chase, taking out the largest. He unwrapped it.

  “Wow,” whispered Nina.

  It was indeed the hilt of a sword, gemstones set into the steel, lines of gold and silver twined around them. But they weren’t what caught Nina’s eye: instead, she looked at the broken stub of the blade, sheared off some five inches below the ornate guard. Inscribed in the metal was a symbol.

  A labyrinth. Just like the ones on the piece they had recovered from Syria.

  She took the sword from Chase, holding it up to the light. “I think we have a match,” she announced.

  “Awesome,” said Mitchell. “Now we need to—”

  The door was kicked open with a bang.

  A rangy, hollow-cheeked man with hair shaved down to a black stubble stood outside, a pistol aimed into the room. Everyone froze. The man entered, momentary surprise at his surroundings quickly vanishing as he focused on his objective. He pointed at Nina. “You,” he said, accent thickly Russian, “give me sword.”

  Mitchell moved in front of her, hands raised. “Stay calm,” he ordered. He took another step, passing Chase. The Russian regarded him suspiciously. “We already have the blade, and without it your boss will never find Excalibur.” He added something in Russian.

  The man replied in kind. Nina had no idea what he said, but he was certainly vehement about it. “Worth a try,” Mitchell sighed, backing away. “Nina, give him the sword.”

  “You just want to hand it over?” Chase said.

  “It’s that or get shot. Nina, go on.”

  Hesitantly, Nina stepped forward. The Russian nodded: Come here. She advanced again. “You want the sword?” she asked. “Catch!”

  She tossed the hilt at his face.

  He instinctively snapped up his hands to catch it, the gun clanging against the ancient metal. But it only took a moment for him to recover, anger flaring as he brought the gun back down—

  Whock!

  The Russian abruptly spun through ninety degrees, wobbled and slumped face first onto the black tiles. Chase looked down at him with satisfaction … then gave a startled “Ugh!” and dropped his makeshift blackjack—the largest of the dildos—as it occurred to him what he was holding and where it had probably been.

  He picked up the unconscious man’s gun. “Bloody hell. I’ve done a lot of weird stuff in my life, but I never, ever thought I’d break a man’s jaw with a foot-long rubber cock.”

  “We need to get out of here and call the police,” said Mitchell. He took out his phone. “Shit. No signal.”

  “We are in a cellar,” Nina reminded him as she retrieved the sword hilt. She turned to Staumberg and Kurt. “They’re after us and the sword, not you. Is there anywhere down here you can hide?” Staumberg nodded.

  “Go there and wait for the police,” Chase told him. He checked the gun, a Steyr M9—fifteen 9mm rounds, fully loaded—and moved to the door. Nobody else in the wine cellar, and no sounds of movement. “Nina, Jack, come on.”

  They hurried back through the cellar. “How the hell did they find us?” Nina asked. “They couldn’t have gone through Bernd’s notes this quickly!”

  “Guess they weren’t as hard to decipher as he thought,” said Mitchell. “No point worrying about it now, though.”

  Chase stopped at the door to check ahead. Still no one. The Englishman taking point, they headed for the stairs.

  Halfway up, they heard a door slam. “Wait,” Chase whispered, creeping upward until he could see the main passageway on the upper cellar level. Nobody there, though he could hear activity off to one side. He warily peered around the corner and saw an open door, lights on beyond it and the bangs and rattles of somebody looking through cupboards. Presumably Rust’s notes hadn’t offered any specific suggestions about where the Nazi hoard might be hidden. “Okay, come on.” Nina and Mitchell advanced as quietly as they could, Chase keeping the gun trained on the open door as they passed him and ascended the next flight of stairs.

  “What’s the plan?” Nina whispered over her shoulder.

  “Get to the car and get the Schloss Adler out of here. Soon as we’re clear, we call the cops. We just need to stay ahead of them until we can get help.”

  “Maybe, but we still have to get to the SUV,” said Mitchell as they reached the top of the stairs. Chase made sure the way was clear, then they ran to the double doors of the great hall.

  He eased them open and peeked through. He couldn’t see anyone in the hall, but his view of the balcony above was limited, and the main doors at the far end were open. There could be intruders in the courtyard.

  Mitchell looked over his shoulder. “Is it clear?”

  “Have to chance it.” He darted through the doors, whipping the gun from side to side. “Okay, come on.”

  They ran down the hall toward the exit—

  Someone shouted in Russian.

  “Shit!” Chase yelped, whirling to bring up his gun. Another man was on the balcony to his left, a sinister little Czech “Skorpion” machine pistol in his hand. Chase unleashed four rapid shots, splintering the wooden railing and forcing the Russian to dive to the floor. He shouted again, this time for help.

 
; “Get to cover!” ordered Chase—but Mitchell had already done so, pulling Nina between the hanging tapestries and suits of armor into the area beneath the damaged balcony, the spiral staircase at its rear. Chase quickly backed across to the opposite side of the hall, gun at the ready. The moment his opponent showed his head, he was going to lose a chunk of it …

  More shouts, but now from the far end of the hall. Three people ran in through the front doors.

  All armed.

  “Oh, fuck!” Chase gasped, hurling himself behind one of the thick oak pillars supporting the balcony as a spray of submachine gun bullets ripped into it.

  THIRTEEN

  Shit! What do we do?” Nina cried, looking across at Chase. He was in the cover of the pillar, but it would only take a few seconds for the new arrivals to reach a position where they could either shoot directly at him, or force him into the line of fire of the man above them.

  “There’s nothing we can do!” Mitchell told her. He pulled her toward the metal spiral staircase. “Come on!”

  Chase saw them move. On the stairs, they’d be visible to the bad guys at the other end of the hall, easy targets as they climbed …

  He leaned around the ravaged pillar and let off three shots, as much to distract as to kill. As he’d hoped, the Russians ran for cover.

  The Skorpion’s high-pitched clatter echoed from the balcony, another burst of bullets tearing chunks out of the oak. Chase shielded his face as splinters flew around him. He had to find better cover.

  Nina scrambled up the stairs, Mitchell right behind her. She looked down the hall as Chase fired another two shots. “Jesus! It’s her!” One of the trio running toward the stone staircase at the end of the balcony opposite was the female sniper she’d seen in Bournemouth, her hair now dyed a vivid red.

  “Dominika Romanova,” said Mitchell.

  “She killed Bernd—”

  “I know. Keep going!”

  Chase blasted two more suppressive shots up at the balcony. Metal clanged as one hit a suit of armor. The Skorpion stopped firing as the Russian ducked again.

  Move—

  He sprinted for the pair of broader wooden columns supporting the corner of the balcony at the hall’s rear. More bullets flew after him, setting the tapestries flapping and causing one of the suits of armor to crash in pieces to the floor. He dived, rolling behind the rectangular base of the two pillars. From here he was shielded from the balcony and the far end of the hall, and had a better firing angle at both.

  Though with only four bullets left, he’d have to make each of them count.

  The man above saw that he had lost his target. He ran for the stone stairs at the end of the balcony to join his comrades.

  Nina reached the top of the spiral staircase. A chill of fear hit her as she saw the gunman on the balcony—but his back was to her as he descended the stairs.

  The door leading to Staumberg’s study was only a few feet away. “Come on!” she said. “Through here—”

  The door opened.

  Nina found herself face to face with yet another of Vaskovich’s thugs, a squat man with his hair tied in a topknot. They both flinched at the unexpected close encounter—then the Russian smiled malevolently as he brought up his gun—

  Mitchell swept Nina aside, whipping around with shocking speed to deliver a roundhouse kick. The gun flew from the Russian’s hand and spun over the railing. Before the startled man could react, Mitchell kicked him again, driving a heel into his stomach and sending him flying back through the door. There was a nasty crack as his head hit a wall, and he collapsed.

  Dominika heard the commotion and shouted an order. The man descending the stairs reversed course, heading back to the balcony. One of her companions fired a burst at Chase to pin him down, then sprinted up the stairs after his comrade, long black coat swirling like a cape.

  Chase looked up and saw Nina and Mitchell, unable to see what was happening on the staircase, running along the balcony toward the Russians. “No, go back!” he shouted—but was drowned out as Dominika and the other man opened fire with their MP-5Ks. Chunks of the pillars protecting him blew apart under the onslaught. “Jesus!”

  Nina reached the stairs—and stopped as she saw the Russian running back up, another man a few steps behind. Both men were armed, and the only weapon she and Mitchell had between them was a broken sword.

  If they couldn’t attack, they had to defend …

  A suit of armor stood guard at the top of the stairs, empty arms crossed over its chest above a broad shield. Nina shoved the whole display over. The armor tumbled down the stairs, exploding into a cascade of gleaming metal pieces. The steel wave swept the first Russian back down the steps with a pained cry.

  The second man leapt over him—and kept leaping, propelling himself off the wall across to the banister, then back to the wall and finally into a somersault that brought him to a perfect landing in front of Nina. His overcoat swirled around him with a dramatic fwumph.

  “Ah … ’kay,” said Nina, startled by the gravity-defying display. “Jack, what now?”

  Mitchell pushed past her, hands raised in a martial arts form. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “He has a gun!”

  “It’s not his style. Is it, Zakhar? Think you can take me?” To Nina’s surprise, Mitchell was right, the slick-haired young man slipping his compact submachine gun into his coat. The two men sized each other up—then both moved at once, fists snapping out and feet slicing in a flurry of strikes and blocks. They seemed evenly matched … but then Mitchell started to be driven back along the balcony.

  Chase saw the whirling brawl from below. What the hell was Mitchell doing? But he had no time to think about it as he came under fire again. The oak columns now resembled well-gnawed apple cores, his cover being eaten away. He snapped off two shots, firing practically blind. Only two bullets left now—

  One of the double doors in the rear wall flew off its hinges with a crash and landed several feet away. The gunfire ceased. Chase whirled to take in the new threat. The giant scar-faced Russian who had stolen Nina’s laptop—Maximov, “the Bulldozer”—leered through the gap at him.

  “Oh, fuck off, Zangief,” said Chase, pulling the trigger.

  Maximov jerked back, but not fast enough. The bullet ripped into his thick bicep, splattering the remaining door with blood. Chase heard a groan from the corridor.

  An almost orgasmic groan.

  He suddenly remembered what Mitchell had told them about Maximov’s scrambled nervous system. “Buggeration …”

  The heavy door swung back—and vanished into the corridor, wrenched from its frame. A moment later it reappeared, a huge hand clamped around each edge as the Russian held it in front of him like a shield.

  Chase fired his last shot at the center of the door, where Maximov’s chest would be. The giant jerked and came to a standstill—but only for a second. The bullet had been slowed so much by two inches of dense old oak that it lacked the power to penetrate his rib cage. Instead, the impact only seemed to spur him on. “I come for you, little maaaaaan!”

  He rushed at Chase, swinging the door like a colossal flyswatter, and sent the Englishman flying, demolishing another suit of armor. Pieces scattered cacophonously around him, the blade of the long-handled halberd it had held thunking an inch deep into the floorboards.

  Groaning, Chase looked up. Dominika and her comrade had advanced—but though their MP-5Ks were still raised, their fingers were off the triggers. Both were smiling. They wanted to watch the show.

  The man laughed and nudged Dominika, saying something mocking in Russian. Chase sat up, one hand falling on a piece of curved metal—and he hurled the armor’s high steel collar at the snickering man like a Frisbee. Its edge slammed into his face, crushing his nose with a splintering wet crunch. He shrieked and staggered backward, blood spurting from both nostrils.

  Dominika snapped up her gun—but Maximov had now reached Chase. She held fire, waiting for a clear shot.

>   Blood seeping down his chest where the bullet had struck, Maximov effortlessly lifted Chase so they were practically face to face, grinning at him with yellow teeth—

  Chase head-butted him.

  And wished he hadn’t. “Ow, fuck!” he gasped as colored starbursts flared in his vision. The bastard really did have a metal plate in his skull! Maximov’s demented grin widened, a rumbling laugh escaping his throat as he tossed Chase back down into the pile of debris.

  Chase yelled as the spike sticking up from the back of the halberd’s axe-head stabbed into his arm. He jerked away, leaving blood on the steel.

  Maximov advanced again, plate-size hands reaching out for him. Chase seized the halberd just beneath the axe-head and tugged it free, bounding to his feet. Dominika raised her gun, Maximov’s proximity making her hesitate …

  Chase lashed out and cracked the end of the halberd’s shaft against her kneecap. She stumbled. Before she could recover, he swept it up and caught the woman a vicious blow under her chin. She fell against one of the hanging tapestries.

  “Dominika!” yelled Maximov, his concern rapidly turning to rage as his mad eyes locked onto her attacker.

  Chase swung the halberd again.

  Maximov raised a treelike arm to block it, the handle snapping in two to leave Chase clutching just a stump of wood with a blade attached. He hurriedly flipped what was left of the weapon over to wield it like a hatchet, but unless he took Maximov’s entire head off with a single swipe he didn’t fancy his chances.

  He didn’t try. Instead, he grabbed the rope holding up the tapestry with one hand and slashed the axe-head through it with the other.

  Chase was no featherweight, but the weight of over a hundred square feet of thick, richly embroidered cloth on a sturdy wooden hanger was more than enough to whisk him upward as the tapestry fell. It knocked Dominika to the floor beneath its folds.

  Chase grabbed the balcony railing. He pulled himself over and took in the scene below. The man with the broken nose was still blindly reeling as he tried to staunch the blood gushing down his face. Dominika was engulfed by the tapestry, while Maximov scowled impotently up at him, the idea of retrieving one of the guns apparently too complex for his brain to accommodate.