The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  This comment seemed to pique Ambrosius’ interest. He shifted his gaze from his now empty glass to the professor. She was glad he was at least partly paying attention now, without her having to give him a swift kick in the shin.

  “I thought Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone, thus becoming king. Hasn’t that always been the legend?” By his tone, Ambrosius seemed to be testing the professor rather than simply asking a question.

  “That is the Hollywood version, Agent Ambrosius, but according to most of the literature, especially the post-vulgate stories, the sword Arthur pulled free from the stone was broken in a fight with King Pellinore. Arthur was then given Excalibur by Merlin the Magician and the Lady of the Lake as a replacement. Supposedly, Excalibur, or Caliburn as it was called by Geoffrey of Monmouth, was forged in Avalon, or Otherworld as it is sometimes translated. As with many supposedly magical swords of that era, Excalibur was created by Wayland, who was the blacksmith to the Gods, similar to Vulcan in Greek mythology. The Irish refer to the sword as Caladbolg. The Welsh, as Agent Ambrosius may know, call it Caladvwlch. Both of these roughly translate as hard lightning.”

  Ambrosius smiled, looking at the professor with a new found respect. It would seem his knowledge had won the British agent over. She had to admit she was equally as impressed. Reggie was right; this guy just might be able to help them after all.

  She noticed Forshay begin to visibly relax, his whole demeanor changing after giving his brief explanation. He seemed no longer on edge, as if sitting here and discussing a topic he obviously knew a lot about had made his comfort level rise. The way he spoke about the sword gave her a better understanding of his passion for the subject. At first he had been hesitant, but once he got going, she witnessed his enthusiasm growing. He was not just giving them information by spewing facts at them, but was trying to teach them at the same time. She got the distinct impression he was actually enjoying himself.

  “According to the stories, what happened to Excalibur?” she asked.

  “Well, most of the legends tend to agree that one of Arthur’s knights, a Sir Bedivere, was given the task of returning the sword to the Lady of the Lake,” the professor said.

  “Why him?” she asked. “Why not one of the more famous knights you always hear about that are associated with King Arthur?’

  “This was after the Battle of Camlann when Arthur defeated Mordred. Arthur himself was gravely wounded. Sir Bedivere found him on the battlefield as he lay dying. Arthur then gave Bedivere Excalibur and told him to throw it in a lake, and then return and tell him what Bedivere witnessed. Bedivere, who was naturally reluctant, takes the sword, but could not bring himself to throw such a valuable weapon away. He returned to Arthur’s side and initially lied about throwing Excalibur into the water.”

  “Why does he lie?’ she asked interrupting. She was completely caught up in the tale at this point.

  “He didn’t want Arthur to die, and he knew the power both symbolic and literal Excalibur held. By keeping the sword, Bedivere thought he could save both king and kingdom.”

  “So the legends say this Bedivere keeps Excalibur?’ she asked, wondering how this related to the piece of information about the fabled sword now residing in Boston.

  “At first,” the professor said. “Supposedly, after returning to Arthur’s side two times, and begging Arthur to reconsider and keep the sword, on the third attempt he finally throws Excalibur into the lake where it is caught in midair by the Lady of the Lake before disappearing back into legend under the surface of the water. There is an interesting debate among Arthurian scholars as to what lake it might have been. The leading candidates are Dozmary Pool on Bedwyn Moor and the lake at Pomparles Bridge near Glastonbury.”

  “And what side of the argument would you choose, Professor Foshay?” Ambrosius asked.

  The two men stared at each other like a couple of prize fighters sizing each other up at the weigh in. At first she thought Ambrosius’ attitude was merely male ego, but now she was not so sure. He acted like he was on the defensive about something, his every question seeming to be leading in some way, or trying to give Forshay enough rope to hang himself with.

  But, so far, the professor had managed to keep his neck out of the noose. Whatever the dynamic building between the two was, it struck her as more than the proverbial male pissing contest.

  “I guess if I had to choose, I would go with Pomparles Bridge since it is so near Glastonbury,” the professor said.

  “What is so special about Glastonbury?” she asked, and was surprised when it was Ambrosius and not Professor Foshay who answered.

  “Glastonbury is home to Glastonbury Abbey, which is where the grave of King Arthur is located.”

  She looked at him. It would appear he knew more about the subject matter at hand than he had let on. She was just about to call him out on it when the professor chimed in with his own new found admiration for the British Agent.

  “That’s right, Agent Ambrosius. King Henry II supposedly unearthed Arthur’s tomb. Many of the historical papers I have seen seem to agree that the grave is indeed of a local chieftain who went by the name of Arturius. I have even seen reports which say that this Arturius may have been close to seven feet tall, which would have been almost unheard of during that time period. Many believe this is where the legend of King Arthur sprouted from. I actually have plans to visit the site next summer.”

  Sommers sat back in the booth, trying to take all the information in. She took two long sips of her drink, welcoming the calming effect the alcohol had on her. She mulled over the new details the professor had given them. It was all very interesting, but really had no bearing on their case. She needed to know how Excalibur got to Boston and more importantly if it was here, where it was hidden.

  She did not know if it was a side effect of her rum and Coke as well, but the more she listened to the professor speak, the more she liked him. He was clearly an intelligent man, but in a modest way. She also liked the way his exceedingly dark eyes seemed to sparkle when he was discussing a topic he was passionate about. Her mind drifted enough to wonder what those eyes might look like in a more personal setting.

  Catching herself she shook her head and put the glass containing her drink back on the table, vowing not to take another sip.

  “That is all very interesting, Professor,” she said, getting herself back under control. “But could you tell me why an IRA terrorist cell would be interested in Excalibur, and maybe even more importantly why they would be looking for it here in the U.S.?”

  Her question left him dumbfounded. A wide range of expressions played across his face. Ambrosius was equally as interested in the professor’s potential response, waiting and watching Foshay closely.

  “I…uh…,” he stammered. “Wait a minute. Is this what this meeting is really all about?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Several days ago a three man IRA terrorist team was apprehended. In their possession was a document which just so happened to mention the location of Excalibur. This document was then stolen by who we believe to be someone in the employ of the same IRA group.”

  “But the sword isn’t real, Agent Sommers. It’s only a myth, a fantasy legend,” he said, though she thought she picked up on the slightest trace of what she could only describe as hope.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter if you don’t think the sword is real or not, Professor Foshay. The IRA terrorists who came to this country did, and the man they hired to find Excalibur has already murdered one person. That, I can tell you is very real.”

  She could see the Professor did not know how to respond to this strange turn. One minute he had been in his element, giving them a history lesson on Arthurian legend, and now he was smack in the middle of a murder investigation. She knew from first hand experience how unsettling the situation could be.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Sommers, but this seems a little out of my league. I mean terrorists? I’m just a college professor. I’m not sure what you want from me.”
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  “Look, Professor,” she said, “We are not asking you to strap on a gun and badge and join a posse. We just need information. So far, you have been very helpful. Now could you give us any idea why the IRA would be willing to go through all the trouble and expense of trying to find a sword, which, as you say, is only a legend?”

  She could not tell if he was trying to come up with an answer or trying to decide if this was some kind of sick joke. She thought she had made her point perfectly clear that this situation was serious, deadly serious. He must have been able to pick up on the grave tone of the moment because he finally answered her question.

  “The only thing I can come up with at this time is also the most obvious answer,” the professor said.

  “And what exactly would that be?” she asked, steadily losing her already strained patience.

  “Well you see, Agent Sommers, according to legend, whoever is able to possess Excalibur is the rightful king of Britain.”

  This last statement seemed to suck the air out of the room. All the background noises vanished, and the only sound she was still aware of was the raspiness of her own breathing. She felt rather than saw Ambrosius’ attention switch from the professor and land on her. She turned to look at the British agent, who nodded in affirmation.

  Things seemed to fall into place, even though it was unresolved, this case began to make at least a little sense. Why else would the IRA, even if it was some fanatical offshoot of the once powerful organization, be so intrigued in a legendary weapon? They were going to use Excalibur as the focal point for some strange kind of coup-de-tat.

  “I guess we at least know why they are so desperate to get their hands on the sword,” she said, breaking the silence that had settled over the booth like a blanket. “But we still do not know why they are looking here.”

  “Where exactly were these terrorists looking?” Foshay asked with a renewed interest.

  “The IRA cell was apprehended in New York City, but we have reason to believe the search for Excalibur has shifted to Boston,” she said.

  “Are you serious?” He almost choked on his excitement.

  The sparkle had returned to his mesmerizing eyes, and she once again found herself caught up in their powerful wake. With eyes like those, he would have made a successful cop. No suspect would have lasted long when forced with an interrogation with Foshay. They undoubtedly would have caved and offered up whatever confession would get the man’s gaze to lessen up.

  “I’m, very serious,” she said, though the smile lurking at the corners of her mouth would have said different. “Is there any way you could tell us how or why Excalibur would be in Boston, and if it is indeed here, where is it?”

  “Not right off hand,” he said after pausing to think. He was obviously intrigued, and she noticed the doubts he had shown a few moments before had all but vanished. “Let me do some research tonight, though, and I might be able to come up with something for you.”

  “We are under a bit of a time constraint,” she said, disappointed. “The IRA has the document, and their hired gun is actively looking for the sword too. Right now it’s a race to see who gets there first, and they have a head start.”

  “I understand, Agent Sommers. Give me tonight, and I will do my best to get you the answers you need.”

  She looked at Ambrosius but he remained silent. His behavior through this whole meeting had been so peculiar and borderline rude that she was not all that surprised when he chose not to say anything. Instead of waiting for the British agent to chime in, she made the decision to give the professor the time he requested.

  “Alright Professor Foshay, you’ve got until tomorrow.”

  “Great. Why don’t you and Agent Ambrosius stop by my office at the university tomorrow, shall we say around 10am? Hopefully by then I will have something for you.”

  “Okay,” she said, sliding out of the booth the same time as the professor.

  “I will see you both in the morning. Now if you will excuse me, I have a long night ahead of me.” He shook her hand before making his way back through the bar and out the double doors. She watched him go with a renewed optimism of her own.

  “Well, chatty Kathy,” she said to Ambrosius, who was still seated at the booth. “I’m beat.”

  “The professor was more interesting and helpful than I gave him credit for,” Ambrosius said.

  “Yeah, he could prove to be the key to this whole crazy mess,” she said. “I’m not sure how they do it back in merry old England, but here in the States when you have a face to face with someone who might have valuable information, it is fairly customary that you actually participate.”

  “You seemed to have things well under control, and as you made it clear to me, this is your investigation,” Ambrosius said with a mischievous grin.

  “Well, your poor excuse for wit aside, I’m going back to my room to slip into something more comfortable, like a coma. Why don’t you meet me in the lobby at 8am and we will go from there?”

  “I will see you in the morning then, Agent Sommers.”

  “Don’t stay up too late,” she said playfully.

  She could not help it, but she was looking forward to seeing the professor again, to see how he would react on his home turf, so to speak. She found herself excited at the prospect of not only seeing Foshay, but possibly getting the information that would let her know where Excalibur was going to be found.

  —Chapter 16

  The Ghost took a cab back into downtown Washington D. C., and felt a sense of déjà vu as he found himself standing in front of the brick building which up to recently had been the residence of the translator, Steven Jackson. It had barely been a day since he was last in this spot. He smirked as he remembered how enjoyable his last visit had been.

  The wind was blustering, and the early evening had brought with it lower temperatures and an increased chill. The fact his breath appeared in rivulets of frosted mist was evidence of that. When a new breeze kicked up, he shivered involuntarily. He was not in the best of moods, and the cold weather only added to his displeasure even if it did match his demeanor.

  At this moment he would have paid big money to be back at his estate in the London countryside, sipping a large brandy and sampling the delights of a young and naïve patron he had managed to seduce from his nightclub. Instead, he was stuck retracing his steps. He had wanted to be well on his way to finding Excalibur by now, but thanks to his own eagerness which had so obviously worked against him, Jackson had pulled a fast one and sent him on a fool’s errand.

  His smirk turned into a mask of pure hatred when he thought about how he had been so easily duped by the old codger. He wished Jackson were still alive so he could kill him all over again. It would not have been a nice and tidy death, either. He would have made sure the old man begged for a mercy which would not be delivered before the end came.

  Thoughts of his imagined revenge continued to run through his head as he walked up to the apartment building’s entrance. The intense hatred helped in fighting off the cold. Unlike his last visit, the streets and sidewalks were almost completely deserted. This worked in his favor, he knew. If someone spotted him entering the building a second time, they might recognize him as someone who was out of place. From his experience, those kind of suspicious characters often got reported to the authorities.

  He could have fallen into the warm embrace and welcoming grasp of his magic, but since no one was around, he would not need to expel that kind of energy. He may have to call upon the bracelet’s power soon enough once he was inside, but that would not be a problem. If all went well, he would be able to locate the information he required fairly quickly, and then be on his merry way before anyone was the wiser.

  He entered the building and found himself in the outdated lobby once again. Everything looked much like it had on his first visit. One would never have known a violent crime had been committed a few short floors up from this very spot.

  Like the streets outside, the lobby w
as quiet and devoid of life. That could change at any time, so he did not dawdle. What head start on Blackburn he thought he had was now gone. It had dwindled away thanks in part to Jackson’s lie.

  “Crafty old goat,” he muttered quietly.

  He begrudgingly respected the man for being able to out smart him even in the face of his demise. The feeling was fleeting, however, as he still wished he could have one more chance at slitting Jackson’s throat and watching his life’s blood pool at his feet.

  He pushed the elevator button and heard the loud humming and creaking along with a disconcerting grinding noise as the cables were shaken from their stillness and the elevator descended from its perch on one of the higher floors. It landed with an audible thud, and after a longer than necessary pause, the doors slid open with a groan. He shook his head in disgust. Everything about this place screamed ancient. It insulted his modern sensibilities, and it only served to make him hate the dead translator even more.

  Since Jackson’s apartment was still undoubtedly considered a crime scene, he decided to draw upon the bracelet’s power. It would not help his cause if he happened to stumble across any of the building’s other residents trying to get a peek at the violence which had taken place under their noses. Or, worse yet, a stray investigator burning the midnight oil and working the case.

  He felt the now customary tingling sensation throughout his body, and knew the magic had taken effect. He was now invisible and could go about his business without any worry about being seen or recognized. He could slip in and back out of Jackson’s apartment without having to worry about being disturbed.

  He was happy to see his worries were for naught, as the fourth floor was deserted. The other tenants were probably settled in for the evening, relaxing before they went to bed so they could get up early for a new day of their pathetic, meaningless lives. The thought made him want to retch. Just the idea of leading such a mundane existence abhorred him.

  The door to Jackson’s apartment criss-crossed in yellow police tape, marking the spot as an active crime scene. Whoever had posted the yellow tape had been careless enough to leave a large gap at the bottom, which would easily allow him enough room to duck under. The locked door, however, was a problem he would need to rectify.