Beloved Sacrifice: Trinity Masters, book 9

by Mari Carr

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m actually in Sussex.”

  “Sussex? Nasty place.”

  “Don’t you say that about all the counties?”

  “All nasty. Don’t trust country folk.” A pause. “Don’t tell Caradoc I said that.”

  “Of course not.” He hoped she couldn’t hear he was smiling.

  “Well, Masoor is off trying to manipulate everyone. Caradoc is grubbing in the dirt, and my own grandson waits a whole day to call his only grandmother and tell her he’s home.”

  Darn it.

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I’m working.”

  “You’re always working. All of you. I’ll just sit here and crochet curtains.”

  “I’m sure that if you chose to do that, they would be the most beautiful curtains in England.”

  “Humph.”

  “In the world.”

  “Better.”

  Marek couldn’t hold it in anymore. He chuckled. “It’s nice to talk to you.”

  “So, what dragon are you out to slay now? Who called for a knight in shining armor?” Her tone was both proud and grumpy. “Can’t believe a grandson of mine is such a goody-goody.”

  “Just doing my part, Grandmother.”

  She sighed dramatically. Jane Dell had until only twenty years ago served as one of England’s most valuable intelligence assets. It was both amusing and frustrating to watch James Bond movies with her—she liked to yell at the screen and tell 007 what a terrible agent he was.

  “I was actually hoping you might be able to help me, Grandmother.”

  “Ah ha. You only call me because you want something.”

  “Not at all. I’m calling because I love to speak with you.”

  “And you want something.”

  “And because I face an impossible task, and you might be the only person in all of England who could help me.”

  Silence.

  “The only person in the whole world who could help me,” he corrected.

  “Humph. Damned right.”

  “Grandmother, language.”

  “How I have such a well-mannered grandchild is beyond me. You get it from Caradoc. I know it.”

  Marek doubted that he had any genetic traits from his Welsh grandfather. Marek’s father looked like Masoor, whose features were South Asian but with the lighter coloring of East Asia, due to the fact that Marek’s great-grandfather has been from Pakistan, his great-grandmother from Southern China.

  And that was just one side of his complex international family tree.

  “I will take that as a compliment, Grandmother.”

  “As you should.” She humphed again. “So what do you need to know?”

  “I’m looking for a woman.”

  “On your own? You’re just going to pick one, like a barbarian?”

  Marek slumped in his seat. His grandparents were in a trinity marriage—one that had been arranged for them by the Admiral.

  “I’m not looking for a woman for myself. She was kidnapped.”

  “That’s better.”

  How was that better?

  “And she’s in Sussex? Or she’s from Sussex? Either way, poor woman.”

  “I believe she’s in Sussex. I’ve traced her this far, but my trail has run cold. I need information from your network.”

  “The old biddy brigade? Ha. Sounds good. What do you need to know?”

  “The kidnapper is an American. White male, maybe twenties or early thirties, at or over six feet, and he has a lazy eye.”

  “That’s it?” Her voice rang with outrage.

  “I thought that the eye would be distinctive enough.”

  “And you’re sure it’s lazy?”

  “The witness said when he looked around, only one eye moved.”

  “That could be a lazy eye or a glass eye. That might be something.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  “I’ll get my biddies in Sussex on the phone. But when you find her, I expect you to bring her by. If she’s cute and of childbearing age.”

  “I’m not going to date her, Grandmother. I’m going to rescue her and get her home to her…family.”

  “Humph. Bring her by.”

  “Grandmother—”

  Click. She’d hung up on him.

  Marek hoped his grandmother’s associates would be able to give him a lead on the man, but until he heard back, there were other avenues of investigation he could look into.

  He started the car and backed out of the parking lot. He was going to find Rose Hancock today.

  Chapter Six

  “What’s the Masters’ Admiralty?”

  Weston tapped the picture of the Isle of Man’s flag. “They’re where the Trinity Masters came from.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Weston’s heart twanged with a sense of both loss and familiarity. Her thinking face was the same now as it had been when they were young. The cold mask she wore was that of an adult stranger, but when she’d wept in his arms it had been heartbreakingly familiar, as was this expression.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed. “There’s a Trinity Masters in England.”

  He nodded. “It’s the Masters’ Admiralty, and they call it ‘the Admiralty.’ I think that everything the purists have belonged to families of the Admiralty.”

  “They gave it to the Trinity Masters for safekeeping during the war?”

  Weston stopped before he spoke and reconsidered what he’d been about to say. He’d done all this on his own, and hadn’t had the chance to work through his logic with anyone else. Instead of telling her what he thought, he asked her the question he’d asked himself. “That’s what I thought, but if that was the case, why wasn’t it returned after the war?”

  “Everyone died.” She frowned. “No, that doesn’t make sense. They couldn’t have all died.”

  “That’s also what I thought.”

  “Maybe…maybe the Admiralty stole all the art and…” She shook her head. “Same problem. If it was given to the Trinity Masters for safekeeping, no matter where it came from, why wasn’t it given back after the war?” She walked around the room again. “The Admiralty—were they with the allied or axis powers?”

  “I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

  “If they were trying to raise money for the Nazi cause, maybe the Trinity Masters, the purists, were supposed to sell it.”

  “But when they lost the war…” Weston prompted.

  “Why wasn’t the art donated or returned?” Rose shook her head. “But we know the purists have been using it as a piggy bank. Whenever they needed cash, someone would beg me for a copy of the map. If they were just holding it, hiding it, they wouldn’t have sold it and then used the money for themselves.”

  Weston nodded. “Which means that…”

  She shot him an irritated look. “Is this a test?”

  “No, I just want to know if you’ll reach the same conclusions I have.”

  “Well, I don’t have twelve years.” The snark was minimal, but there.

  He didn’t respond.

  “This only makes sense if either everyone who knew about it in the Admiralty died, and the purists decided not to say anything, and just keep it for themselves.”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “And what’s the other?” she asked.

  “If the purists stole it from the Admiralty.”

  Rose pursed her lips. “That’s certainly more in keeping with the purists. Barton and Elroy all but cleaned that place out not long after you…after you left.”

  “I didn’t leave you, Rose. I nearly died because I went after them without the power and information I needed. This is what I was doing.” He waved his had around the room, then lowered his voice. “I didn’t leave you.”

  She folded her arms, elbows tucked hard to her body. “You did. You left me.”

  “Caden was there.”

  “Caden was…” She swallowed hard. “I’m not having this conversation with
you right now.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re grieving.”

  “I’ve been grieving for a long time.”

  That took him by surprise. Did she mean she’d grieved for him?

  “So the purists stole all the art.” Her tone was louder and painfully neutral.

  He brought himself back to the moment. “If you assume the art was stolen, and look at it again, the picture changes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How much do you know about the naval campaigns from WWII?”

  “I’m sure I learned about them in school.”

  He turned to the “in progress” wall, examining the details and dates he’d laid out there. It had taken years for him to refine his theories to this point. He’d started out with too little information, then had too much. Now he was close, and before he’d gotten the transcript of a call between all three of his parents in which Elroy had told Barton he thought Caden was dead, and he couldn’t get ahold of Rose, he’d planned to go to the coast, to the old port, and check out the last part of his theory.

  “I’m going to tell you a story.” He took a step back, leaning against the wall so he could take his weight off his right leg.

  “In nineteen forty-two, the USS Bluebird was sent to attack a Spanish ship headed for South America. The U.S. military had received intelligence that there was a Spanish ship carrying ‘treasure.’ The Bluebird’s captain was a man named John Kirkpatrick. He was a member of the Trinity Masters.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I snuck into Harrison’s office and checked the records.”

  Rose whistled. “Ballsy.”

  “I spent a lot of time in the tunnels, mapped them. I knew how to get in and out of the Grand Master’s office.”

  “They have the real map now,” she warned him.

  “We don’t need what’s in the tunnels anymore. What matters is here.” He pointed at the wall.

  She stepped closer, looked at the one grainy image of the Bluebird he’d been able to find.

  “The records of the USS Bluebird are all suspiciously light, but what I was able to piece together was that it was headed for the Spanish ship when the Bluebird ended up in a firefight with a German ship. It won the battle with the German ship, and then hours later sank the Esperanza. It wasn’t hard, Esperanza was a cruise ship, but it was flying the flag of neutrality.”

  “Flag of neutrality?”

  “The Spanish flag. Spain remained neutral throughout the war. Flying their own flag was supposed to keep them safe.”

  “So the Bluebird sank a neutral ship?”

  He nodded. “The newspapers said it was because it had been taken over by the Germans, that the German ship was actually an escort. But from the records I was able to take from the Grand Master’s office, including diaries of seamen, I think the Bluebird had intelligence that said the Esperanza was full of treasure—sometimes that was used as code for soldiers and assets. The records say that the Esperanza took on water so fast that it sank in ten minutes. None of the treasure was recovered. According to the records.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think that the Esperanza really was a neutral ship, and the whole thing was organized by the Masters’ Admiralty. There must have been people high enough up in the Nazi party that they even sent a German battleship as escort.”

  “Why a German ship?”

  “This was early nineteen forty-two. The Germans were winning the war.”

  “So the Esperanza didn’t sink, or at least not that fast. The Bluebird crew boarded it and took the treasure—all those things hidden in the tunnels.” Rose looked at him, though her words had been phrased as a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “And they covered it up because they sank a supposedly neutral ship.”

  “More than that,” Weston said. “I think that there was something on that ship that made Kirkpatrick realize all those things belonged to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

  “He would have had to know who they were.”

  “True.” And that was a sticking point in his story.

  “So they raid the boat, take the treasure, then realize they just stole stuff that belongs to the Masters’ Admiralty, and have to cover it up.”

  “Yes.”

  Rose frowned. “That means the Grand Master would have to have known about it.”

  “True.”

  “But if the Grand Master knew, why didn’t Harrison and Juliette know about the tunnels?”

  “Maybe the Grand Master at the time didn’t tell the next. It would have been Harrison’s grandfather.”

  “He wouldn’t tell them about unsecured secret entrances?”

  “The Grand Master may have decided that no one could know—it was too dangerous. Maybe the tunnels were sealed—”

  “Wait!” Rose whipped around, cheeks flushed. “Jessica Breton.”

  “Who?”

  “A member during that time. She was the one who talked openly about sympathizing with the Nazis, and keeping black, Hispanic and Asian people out. She coined the name purists.”

  Rose paused, and he was fairly sure it was for dramatic effect.

  “And she was a counselor to the Grand Master.”

  Weston looked at the board, then back to Rose, then pumped a fist. “Hot damn, Brown Eyes. That’s it.”

  Rose grinned and paced. “So only the Grand Master and his counselors know, and they swear to keep it a secret, and everyone does except Jessica.”

  Weston picked up the story. “She tells the other purists, and they decide to use it as a piggy bank, while the Grand Master assumes it’s all safe and hidden.”

  “And he doesn’t tell his son.”

  “Who doesn’t tell Harrison.”

  They grinned at one another. Rose blinked, then turned away, face falling into that cold mask.

  Weston closed his eyes and sighed. “What I’ve been trying to figure out is how they would have known it belonged to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

  “Maybe they figured it out the same way you did—realized some of it came from England.”

  “I thought about that, but that would have taken time—they would have had to examine each piece and check its provenance. There are almost no records for the Bluebird or the Esperanza, which means they started the cover up right away. They had to have realized almost instantly that a cover up was needed.”

  “And you went through everything in the tunnels?”

  “Not everything. Just the biggest pieces of art. And I hadn’t even catalogued all of those before some of them disappeared.”

  “Meaning someone went down and took them.” She touched the wall of papers, her fingers long and elegant. “And there were probably more things that were taken, before we were even born.”

  “That’s what I thought. I think I know how to figure it out.”

  “How?”

  “It was a Spanish ship, but I think it docked here in England, secretly and just for a few hours, to pick up items from families here. I’ve been corresponding with a local historian down in Dorset, where I think the ship stopped. Thirty years ago, they did a campaign, recording oral histories from people who lived here during the war. It was meant to be a catalogue of memories.

  “I’m hoping that somewhere, on one of those tapes, someone will remember seeing the Esperanza. Maybe even remember seeing what was loaded onboard—art, papers, records.”

  Rose frowned.

  “Rose?”

  “Something you said made me think…” She shook her head. “It’ll come back to me.”

  He waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “That’s the next step. Go to Dorset and sort through those tapes. I’m hoping to get confirmation that the Esperanza was there. After that, I hope to have enough proof.”

  “Enough proof to do what?”

  He hardened his voice. “To take this to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

  Her eyes rounded.

  “You told me that
I didn’t have enough power to fight all of them—the Andersons and the purists. You were right. I tried for years to find a way to fight them all on my own, but it’s not possible. I can’t. We can’t. But the Masters’ Admiralty can, and they know it.”

  He watched her expression change as she processed what he’d said. Shock, consideration, and finally grim satisfaction flitted across her lovely face.

  The wide-eyed expression made his heart ache, because in that moment he saw the girl she’d been.

  The girl he’d failed, and in failing her, lost forever.

  Rose now was lean and sleek, like a black cat—unreadable eyes and ready claws.

  “You get the proof,” she said. “Then…what? How will you get to the Masters’ Admiralty?”

  “I’m already in contact with them.”

  “You are?”

  He nodded and leaned against the wall again to take weight off his right knee. Normally he hauled one of the kitchen chairs in here if he planned to be in the room for any length of time.

  “When—” He stopped. This explanation would mean going back, talking about that fateful summer.

  Something on his face must have given away his discomfort, because her expression went blank. “Just say it, Weston.”

  He was back to Weston. No more Wes.

  “After I learned…” He braced himself to finish that sentence. “After I learned what they were doing to you, I started looking for help. I knew we couldn’t go to the Grand Master—he wouldn’t believe me, or worse, I thought maybe the Grand Master had asked Elroy to…to train you.”

  “I remember,” she said softly. “We talked about it, about going to one of the other families.”

  He nodded once. He’d forgotten that they’d talked about it, debating in hushed tones whom they could trust. Since then, he’d had this same debate with himself a hundred times. Weston waited to see if she’d say anything else. When she stayed silent, he continued.

  “My grandfather used to insist that the Trinity Masters weren’t the first. That there was an organization in England. That Admiral Lord Nelson had been a member.”

  She was looking at something on the wall beside him, but he didn’t think she was actually seeing anything.

  “I started researching Nelson, and it turns out he was in a trinity—with the British ambassador to Naples and the ambassador’s wife. I wasn’t sure they were a trinity, because in some accounts it looked like the wife, Emma, was just having an affair with Nelson.