"I haven't," Indy said, his tone flat but unmistakably serious. "But when the Glen was attacked, one of the people here saw the tattoo of a barracuda on the arm of one of the attackers." He paused for his words to sink in. "Exactly like yours."
LeDuc nodded slowly. "Then you have identified, no doubt, where some of those people were recruited."
"How? Where?" Treadwell broke in quickly.
"It is not Ton Ton," LeDuc replied. "But there is a group composed of Haitians, Jamaicans, and others from the islands, a mix of people and languages. French, Spanish, English, mainly. They keep no written records of their names. Only numbers. And all wear the tattoo of the picuda that kills in a flash and can speed off faster than the eye can follow."
Di Palma listened intendy to every word. "They are a political group?"
LeDuc laughed harshly. "Only when money is involved. They are mercenaries. Almost all of them have police records. Drug and gun running, prostitution, child slavery, smuggling illegal aliens, murder for hire. They even have their own banking system set up through the islands. Ruthless, without conscience—their loyalty is to the highest bidder." LeDuc rubbed his chin. "But I have never before heard of them so far from the Americas."
"And you wear the tattoo," Indy observed with false calm.
LeDuc nodded. "Many of our government security forces have the mark. It is all that has kept us alive sometimes. Remember, there are no names. Only numbers. As we disposed of certain elements we try to replace them with our own. That way we learn—it is the only way—of the organization from the inside."
"One thing bothers me," Indy said.
LeDuc waited, not saying a word.
"Two things, really. The first man was sent for a long dive outside the window of my flat"—he gestured to Gale—"ably assisted by the lady. The second man who went out that window referred to the first as Ahmed."
LeDuc shrugged. "They change names like their shirts. And the second thing, Professor?"
"I've dealt with fanatical groups throughout the world. From Arabian assassins to Hindu zealots to snake worshipers and everything in between. Mercenaries may not be afraid to die, but they don't commit suicide to avoid capture like this fellow did."
"If he had been captured, and revealed anything about his group," LeDuc explained, his face like granite as he spoke, "he would have sought death, frantically. To violate the fealty of this group is to condemn oneself to a very long and agonizing death. Long before the end comes, such violators of their oaths plead and beg for the mercy of death."
"Then," Treadwell interjected, "if we run across some chap with that tattoo, it could be one of this mercenary group, or—confound it—it could be one of your own people! We'd have no way to tell. Anyone with the barracuda on their arm must be regarded as a dangerous enemy."
LeDuc shrugged. "That is the way the ocean currents run sometimes. You dive into the water and take your chances."
Di Palma gestured unhappily. "Then we are dealing with men of no conscience."
Again LeDuc shrugged. "That is not for you to say. Or have you not read of the actions of European conquerors through the ages?"
"Hey!" Indy said abruptly. "Knock it off, you people! We're here by invitation, upon our own request. Just accept what we're dealing with and extend our courtesies to our hosts."
Gale squeezed Indy's hand in a silent thank-you. Treadwell nodded vigorously. "Well said, Indy. We were overdoing it." He turned to Gale. "Would you, please?"
Gale started from the car. "Stay with me, please," she said as she began walking up the hill toward the great hall.
Caitlin St. Brendan rose in stately fashion from a huge throne at the far end of an oval table, its glistening wood so polished it reflected the firelight. Large chairs waited for the visitors about the table, but for the moment they stood in silence, struck with the beauty and power of the standing woman.
"You are welcome," Caitlin spoke, her voice ringing clear and sharp through the hall, drifting back with gentle reverberations from the high rafters. Fires burned along the outer walls beneath simmering caldrons. Well back from the table, along the walls, men and women armed with swords, crossbows, and pickaxes stood silently, their weapons at rest. Behind Caitlin, and to her right, waited a small throng of Glen folk. They would serve the visitors food and drink.
"Please," Caitlin continued with a wave of her hand, "be seated."
They took their seats, Gale closest to Caitlin, Di Palma and LeDuc on one side, Indy and Treadwell on the other. Caitlin half turned and raised an arm in signal. Immediately men, women and children approached the table with great wooden platters of roasted boar, fruits, round bread, and cheese. Wooden goblets filled with wine were set before the visitors.
Caitlin sat loosely, every eye on her. Indy noticed the new leather tunic that covered her body, the ancient symbol of a cross and circle about her neck. Long dark hair flowed over her shoulders. She was, he saw more clearly now, a stunning woman, her face strong and lovely. Against the right armrest of her throne lay the sword of Caliburn.
"Eat and drink, if you will," her voice sang out. "Speak with one another as you please. But we will not broach the subject for which you have come here until my father joins us. He is now in the prayer chamber and will be with us soon."
Indy marveled at the scene and the moment. They might have slipped back in time a thousand years. The great hall bore signs of Viking influence, subtle but real. Along the upper half of the walls were mounted heads of bears, stags, boars, foxes, wolves, and other animals, which lent an atavistic air to the scene below.
His gaze froze as he spied the next animal in line. A horse... No. Yes. But a horse with a single long curled horn extended from its forehead.
Unicorn. Other eyes followed his. Treadwell stared, his mouth open until he clamped it shut with an effort. "Miss St. Brendan?" he asked, his voice quavering.
"Yes?" She sounded like a priestess addressing a child entering a sacred chamber.
"If you would..." Treadwell hesitated, then raised his arm slowly to point at the horned animal. "That... is it real?" Treadwell inquired.
"It is."
"A unicorn?"
"So it seems, sir. Why are you so surprised, Mr. Treadwell?"
He showed yet more surprise at her knowing his name. There had been no introductions, but, well, Gale or Indy could have told her. But they hadn't had time... He dismissed this lesser mystery.
"I am surprised, madam. To put it mildly," he added. "I was not aware the unicorn was a real animal."
"I cannot believe it!" Di Palma echoed.
"Gentlemen." Gale spoke up. "If there is the narwhal, with its single long tusk, why not the unicorn?"
Di Palma turned to her. "But no one has ever seen a live unicorn!"
"And you, sir, do you know anyone who has seen a woolly mammoth? A dinosaur? Yet you believe in those, do you not?"
"Yes, but—"
"That animal," Caitlin broke in, "is no trophy. They roamed the New Forest untold years past. The one you see has been in this building more than four centuries. Like yourself, I have never seen a living unicorn. But I assure you they are real."
She turned at the approach of her father, Kerrie. Everyone stood to greet the patriarch of the Glen. He gestured for them to sit, then eased painfully into the chair by his daughter. He accepted a goblet with perfumed wine, but declined food, content to sip slowly while his guests ate.
Treadwell's impatience was almost palpable. He finally turned to Gale; she recognized his unvoiced request to get into the reason for their visit. She in turn looked to Caitlin, who understood the silent exchange.
"Mr. Treadwell, you are here officially for Scotland Yard. These two men with you are part of your investigation?"
"Yes," he said quickly.
"What may we do for you?"
Treadwell wasted no time in reviewing the events leading to this moment. He detailed their conviction that despite the many names he used, the leader of the group was
Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas, who had a nasty and evil reputation with most police agencies throughout the world.
"We have begun a search, coordinating with these agencies, to hunt him down."
"And when you find him, if you find him and his thugs, you will arrest him? Take him into custody?" Indy watched and listened. Caitlin was maintaining a fine grip on her temper.
"Of course. We'd, ah, also like to place him in custody, along with his entire gang, before they find the gold that appears to be revealed by the map they came here to—"
"Take by killing and force," Caitlin finished for him. "You will take this beast into custody," she said now with open scorn, "and you will follow your grotesque laws, and you will imprison him, feed him, care for him, attend to his medical needs, and you will not prove that he is guilty. We never saw his face."
"But—"
"And then he will go free," Caitlin added with a sharp finality. She studied Treadwell in the silence that followed. "You must do what you must do," she went on. "So that there will be no question in your mind, I will find this man and"—she grasped the sword and held it high—"I will obey our ancient laws, and exact retribution."
"You intend to kill him," Treadwell said.
"Justice so demands. The murder of my mother so demands."
Treadwell leaned forward. He chose his words with great care. "If my words offend, they are spoken through ignorance. I do not intend any such offense. But I am not wise in your ways—"
"Speak without concern," Caitlin interrupted. "Words are feathers compared to what has happened here."
"Then I accept your permission to be blunt." Treadwell paused.
Caitlin nodded. Her father looked on with seeming detachment, as if everything had already been decided and this exchange was so much posturing.
"You are talking of revenge," Treadwell continued. "You have said you would exact retribution with the sword. If this is what you do, then you will be committing a crime yourself. Revenge in such a manner damages both parties, and—"
"Only by your laws," came the cold response.
"Retribution by murder under British law is still murder," Treadwell said carefully.
"If it occurs on British soil."
"Forgive me. I don't wish to preach, Miss St. Brendan, but I cannot simply ignore—"
"Consider it redress," Kerrie St. Brendan said finally. "You are a policeman. Law and order. Which has not availed us here in the Glen. We have buried many dead. My wife is gone forever."
Caitlin placed a hand on her father's arm. She looked directly at Treadwell. "You yourself said you do not understand our ways. So I will say this to you this one time."
Again she held up the sword, this time rising to her feet. With a wicked hiss of metal through the scabbard, she revealed the blade. It seemed both to capture the blaze of the fires and to cast forth its own glow.
"This is Caliburn. The one and only true sword of Merlin. Ask no questions of me. Not now, not ever. But I tell you this so you may understand. It is forbidden to use this blade for vengeance. Forbidden, and lethal to its wielder. It may be used to right a wrong, to defend, to exact redress, just as I will use it in that manner. But it may never"—she said the words sharply, returning Caliburn to its scabbard—"be used to kill for the sake of killing. By your laws, it will be self-defense. I will be attacked. I will defend myself. I will follow our ancient laws and your modern laws." Her hand stroked the sword hilt. "In this metal," she said softly, "lives the spirit of Merlin. I follow and obey his spirit."
She regained her seat. Treadwell was flabbergasted. He turned to Gale; she was impassive. He looked to Di Palma and LeDuc. They looked as perplexed as was he. Finally Treadwell caught Indy's attention.
"You understand," the inspector said slowly.
Indy nodded.
"And you never told me," Treadwell continued.
"It wasn't up to me to tell you anything," Indy said quickly.
"We have run out of time." They turned to Caitlin. She finished off a goblet of wine. "The hour draws late. Ask what else you need to know and then it is time for you to depart. Once the mists close in the forest, the Glen cannot again be penetrated until I have fulfilled my sworn duty."
"The gold," Treadwell went on immediately. "The gold that is referenced in the map. How long have your people had this map?"
Caitlin's answers could be as infuriating as they were brief. "Since before I was born," she told him. "It was given to my father by his father and then passed on to me. I know nothing else about the map—who created it, who brought it to us. It was given to us for safekeeping, it seems. But that became a foolish idea when the madman who attacked us learned of its whereabouts."
"I've seen the copy," Treadwell said. "What about the gold? Can you tell me how much there is? Where it is? And—"
Caitlin raised her hand to stem the flow of words. "We do not care about the gold. My interest is in the map because Cordas must follow it to pursue what he covets so desperately. A fool's errand, but he will leave a trail for me to follow."
Treadwell knew when to quit. He could sense the impatience in Caitlin for his group to leave. He turned to Gale. "You are going with her?"
Gale shrugged, a deliberate avoidance.
"Indy, what about you?" Treadwell persisted.
Caitlin spoke before Indy could answer. "That one will make his own decision when it is time."
Treadwell was puzzled. "I don't understand," he told Caidin.
"Jones is different," she replied. "He is not like you or the others. He knows the wisdom of the Old Ways. He has seen the Dance of the Giants. He enters the ancient monoliths and tombs and feels the kinship across all the centuries. He respects the past and he can read and comprehend what leaves the rest of you baffled. And most of all, this woman"—Caitlin pointed to Gale—"who is my sacred sister, trusts him. As I do now. He honors us, we honor him. He fights for what he believes."
Caitlin looked up, as if she could see the sky through the roof of the great hall. "It is time for you to leave. Gale will lead you through the time mists. I thank you for your concern. Do not try to return. You will not be able to come back here until the time is right. We will determine that time."
Treadwell rose. "I understand. I thank you, your father, your people, for your courtesy." He hesitated, rubbing his chin in an old habit. "And the roads... I understand. The roads that are like a snake that holds its tail in its mouth so that one always travels in the circle that goes nowhere."
Caitlin nodded approvingly. "You learn quickly. I am impressed."
Treadwell bowed to her.
Then they were gone. Behind them light curved, mists flowed downslope, and St. Brendan's Glen sealed off from the outside world.
9
Old Man Pencroft—Sir William Pencroft, chairman of the Department of Archaeology at London University—glared with unconcealed antagonism at Thomas Treadwell. Twice Pencroft had started to voice his anger at the inspector from Scotland Yard; both times his frail lungs had failed him. He coughed almost uncontrollably, the nurse who attended his every need holding a white linen handkerchief to his lips, her other hand pressed against his chest to ease the pain. With a sudden strength born of self-anger, Pencroft shoved the handkerchief beneath the blanket across his lap.
Not soon enough to hide the spots of red. Pencroft leaned back, drawing in as much air as he could, waiting for his breathing to slow down before he spoke. He gestured with one hand, and his nurse immediately turned the wheelchair about. With his back to the group, Pencroft brought up the handkerchief to dab away the flecks of blood around his lips. Quickly he accepted a pill and water from his attendant; the effect was surprisingly rapid, as if the man whose skin now resembled yellow parchment had sucked in pure oxygen.
Again the wheelchair turned. Pencroft raised a shaking hand to point a gnarled finger at Treadwell. "Thomas, you've become a stupendous nuisance to this institution," he said in a sandpapery voice. "And do not apologize or tell me you're s
orry. If that were true, you wouldn't be here, disrupting my schedule, sending waves of rumor through our classrooms."
"But I do regret the intrusion," Treadwell pleaded. He was deeply fond of Pencroft. The sentiment had long been returned, but when it came to university matters, Pencroft was irascible. "If this were not of the greatest import—"
"Everything you come to me with is always of the greatest import," Pencroft responded with sarcasm. "I have always Pondered how Scotland Yard reached the conclusion that governmental snooping is of a higher value than education and research."
"This matter exceeds the daily needs of both the Yard and these"—Treadwell rolled his eyes—"hallowed halls choking in ivy."
"Ah, a bit cantankerous this day, are we?" Pencroft smiled. Few things in life pleased the man students called the Ancient Mariner of Archaeology more than dueling with friends capable of holding their own against him.
From the opposite side of the conference room table, Indy and the others watched with open amusement. Indy had long accepted the verbal barbs Pencroft leveled at him nonstop. A "crude sophisticate with pure genius for ancient languages and cuneiform, unfortunately adulterated with a swinelike lack of breeding or manners" was his favorite. Despite such insults, the two men had unqualified respect for one another. Indy judged that it was now time to step in.
"Listen to him carefully, Sir William." Indy eased into their exchange. "If you look carefully, you'll notice that Thomas has changed his facial appearance."
Pencroft squinted at Treadwell. "He looks as common and dreary as I remember him. No, not as well. Age does him ill." He turned to Indy. "What in heaven's name is this change you're muttering about?"
"He looks more Greek than before," Indy said.
"Your remark is less curious than vapid," Pencroft snapped. "Stop your silly games and—"
"Sir?" Pencroft wasn't accustomed to interruptions when he was dispensing insults. Treadwell had caught him by surprise with that single word. Pencroft seized the moment. "Yes, yes? Do you need permission to go to the loo?" He cackled with laughter at his levity.
Indiana Jones and the White Witch Page 11