by Shawn Oetzel
She casually slipped her right hand inside her coat and touched the reassuring grip of her sidearm. The gun felt good in her hand, and helped remind her she was not completely helpless. She felt even more reassured when she noticed Reggie was doing the exact same thing. They shared a nod of understanding.
They came to a stop. Another vehicle door opened and then closed somewhere behind them. Sommers wondered if this was a courtesy escort or was it some sort of security protocol to make sure she and her companions did not try to commandeer the limo and escape.
It did not come as any real surprise when the passenger side rear door opened, and Mr. Mirrored Sunglasses greeted them.
“I hope everything was to your satisfaction,” the man said.
“Oh yeah, everything was just peachy,” she said. “Now you want to tell us just where in the hell we are?”
“Why don’t you see for yourselves, Agent Sommers?” He took a step back and gestured with his arm in an inviting manner.
The bright sunshine hurt her eyes after being in the darkened interior of the limousine for such a long period of time, and she was momentarily blinded. It took a good twenty seconds before she was able to adjust to the sudden introduction of light and her vision returned to normal. She had a sudden flash of sarcastic insight, wondering if this was why their hosts favored the mirrored sunglasses.
When her vision fully returned, she looked around, then sucked in a deep breath and shook her head in astonishment.
“Wow!” she said. She looked at her companions and they all nodded in unison, agreeing with her shocked exclamation.
They stood in the shadow of a castle, replete with stone turrets and banners flapping in the breeze. She even spotted a portcullis with a large black iron gate pulled open so only the pointed tips were showing like the open mouth of an evil creature. If she did not already know better, she would have sworn they were all somehow transported to the English countryside. It was like she had stepped back in time to the Middle Ages.
The gravel sound she had heard was actually a long lane that ended in a circle drive directly in front of the gate. The stones were pure white limestone, gleaming magnificently in the afternoon sun, so white they made what snow was still on the ground look dirty in comparison.
She looked over at Ambrosius and saw an odd dreamy expression on his serious face., “Make you feel a little homesick does it?” she asked.
“More than you know, Agent Sommers,” he said in a far off voice. “More than you know…”
“Welcome to Chateau Nicholas,” Mirrored Sunglasses said.
“All right, I gotta admit it, I’m impressed,” she said.
“If you will all follow me please, we can get inside and out of this chill air.”
They did followed their guide through the open gate and into the lush courtyard of the chateau. She took notice of three black Cadillacs also parked in the circle drive. She did not know if these were the rides of more guests such as herself and her companions or if these belonged to the promised associates they were going to meet with.
The courtyard was immense, large enough to host a high school football game. It was well taken care of and landscaped to perfection. Even this late in the year and with the near freezing temperatures of the last few days, there were still some flowers blooming prettily.
A large fountain with a circular pool dominated the center of the courtyard. Rising up out of the middle of the pool was a perfectly crafted granite sculpture of a woman’s hand holding a sword, as if the feminine hand was thrusting the sword up from some mysterious depths. The four of them stood side by side, staring at the sculpture.
“Is this what I think it is?” Sommers asked.
It was Ambrosius who decided to answer. “Yes Agent Sommers, that is exactly what you think it is.”
She had been unsure on what to expect from this impromptu excursion, but she had not thought in a million years to see such an obvious symbolic reference to the exact same fabled sword she was desperately trying to locate. She could only shake her head again, the case continuing to baffle her as it led her down its path full of twists and turns.
“I told you this would not be a waste of your time,” Mirrored Sunglasses said. “Now, if you will follow me, I promise you will find more surprises inside.”
He led them across the courtyard to the front entrance of the chateau. Sommers could not help turning around and looking over her shoulder at the depiction of Excalibur. The uneasy feelings she had been experiencing were slowly but surely starting to subside. They were replaced by a renewed sense of optimism. Maybe this was the break she had been hoping for since arriving in Boston.
The entrance was an enormous oak door, rounded off at the top, adding to the old world charm of the place. There was a black cast iron knocker set slightly above center. Mirrored Sunglasses lifted the iron loop and slammed it down on the awaiting metal plate loudly three times. Immediately after the third knock stopped echoing, the heavy door was pulled open from the inside, and they were invited in by a man dressed like a stereotypical gentleman’s butler, complete with black tails and white gloves. She had the sudden desire to call the man Jeeves, but was able to utilize some self-restraint before embarrassing herself.
They stepped over the threshold and into a large parlor; complete with marble floors and a winding stairway carved out of the same stone. It was breathtaking in its beauty and craftsmanship. The sight was overwhelming as well, and she wondered if that was at least partially the point. Anyone entering this place would find themselves at a distinct disadvantage. Even now, she felt small and insignificant in comparison to the grandeur of the chateau.
“If you would like, Mr. Dawson will take your coats,” Mirrored Sunglasses said, motioning towards the older man she thought of as “Jeeves.” His voice almost boomed in the amplification of the large open space.
So, Jeeves has a name. At least someone attached to this organization does, she thought.
They slipped out of their winter coats, and handed them over to Mr. Dawson. Their guide waited patiently as they did this not removing his own overcoat or glasses.
“Now, if you please,” Mirrored Sunglasses said. “We are going up the stairs and to the right. My associate is there waiting for you.”
“Well, I for one can’t wait to see what’s next,” she said.
“Hear, hear,” Reggie said from behind her.
The sounds of their shoes on the expertly crafted marble steps echoed, rolling like thunder across the chateau. When they reached the top of the staircase, they turned down a rather lengthy corridor. In a stark contrast, their feet made a “shushing” sound as they moved across a soft and plush crimson carpet. The walls were covered in either elaborate tapestries depicting knights in battle or portraits of distinguished looking men and women so detailed they looked as if they could climb out of their respective frames. Also, every so many feet was a full scale suit of armor. She was no expert, but she had a pretty good idea they were authentic, and not replicas.
She would have liked to stop and inspect the armor as well as the artwork a little closer, and from the way the professor was slowing down before each piece, she knew he felt the same. Mirrored Sunglasses never slowed, however, as he moved down the long hall. He stopped at the fifth door and turned to look at them.
“My associate is waiting for you inside,” he said.
“You’re not joining us?” she asked.
“Not at the moment,” he said, and she got the impression that he fully expected to be apart of whatever unfolded. With a polite nod, he turned and retreated back down the hall.
“Well, let’s not keep our host waiting,” Reggie said.
“Indeed,” said Ambrosius under his breath. He seemed anxious to find out what all the cloak and dagger secrecy was all about. Sommers felt the exact same way.
“Shall we?” she asked.
“Take us in, Sommers,” Reggie said.
“You’re such a gentleman, Reggie, letting the on
ly woman walk into the great unknown,” she said.
“Yeah, because you are so helpless and all,” he said.
“Can we break up the sarcasm festival, and find out what is behind door number one?” Ambrosius asked.
The dry wit of his tone made them all laugh out loud, even if it was more of a nervous laugh than anything due to humor. Leave it to Ambrosius to put things in perspective in his own special way.
“All right Ambrosius, you win,” she said. She grabbed the bronze door knob, twisted it, and opened the door.
She led them into what looked like a medieval version of a boardroom. Instead of a long rectangular conference table, however, the room was dominated by a circular one. The irony of the symbolism was not lost on her or her companions. They all shared another knowing look.
At the rear of the room was a large stone hearth big enough for two people to stand side by side in. A fire blazed and the burning wood crackled, adding a sense of comforting warmth to the room. The roaring fire did not capture her attention so much as the man sitting with his back to it did. He was middle-aged, casually sipping wine from a crystal goblet and smoking a Churchill style cigar. The smoke he exhaled floated lazily upward, where it formed a mini cloud above his head.
“Hello, Agent Sommers,” the man said. “I am sure you would like some answers.”
“You got that right,” she said. Her reply came out a little more strained than she would have liked. If the man sitting before her was as perceptive as she was giving him credit for, then he would have definitely picked up on it.
“Well for starters, let me introduce myself. My name is Thomas Nichols.”
The name meant nothing to her beyond a faint ring of familiarity. Their host was a distinguished and handsome man. His hair had gone an almost complete gray, though there were still a few strands of a darker color still fighting the good fight. She put him in his early to mid fifties though he seemed to radiate the energy of a much younger man. His gaze was intense, and she could feel the aura of his self-confidence behind it.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Nichols,” she said. “You already seem to know my name, and I’m guessing I don’t need to make any introductions with my friends here as well.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. If you, Agents Ambrosius and Blackburn, and Professor Foshay would please join me, maybe I can answer a few of your questions.”
She made no move to sit down, and was pleased when the others followed her lead and remained standing. She was not about to put herself or anyone under her protection into a vulnerable situation without at least some kind of reassurance that no harm would befall them.
“You want to tell me just how it is you know so much about us,” she said. This was a statement, and almost an order, instead of a question.
Nichols took a long puff on his cigar and smiled mischievously. Sommers did not care much for what she saw in that smile. It reminded her of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. This was a man who was used to playing at secrets, and one who was used to holding all the cards.
“It is our duty to know such things, Agent Sommers,” Nichols said.
His use of the word “our” was not lost on her. It implied there were more men at his disposal.
“And just who are you?” she asked. “What exactly is your duty?”
“We are the Franklin Knights, Agent Sommers, and we are the guardians,” Nichols said. “We knew of your arrival in Boston almost immediately. We knew you would search out the good professor there eventually. We also know there is another, less savory, individual in our fair city, though I do not believe we need to concern ourselves with him just yet. It is our duty to know this information. Trust me, Agent Sommers, I can help you if you let me.”
She glanced at the others. Reggie had concern etched on his face. Ambrosius appeared tense like a cat ready to pounce. The professor looked as out of his depth as ever.
“How exactly can you help me, Mr. Nichols?” she asked.
“For starters, I know where Excalibur is.”
It was like someone sucked the air out of the room. A collective gasp escaped the four of them at roughly the same time. She felt a little light headed, and without thinking about it, she moved over to the nearest chair, pulled it out, and sat down at the round table. Ambrosius, Reggie, and the professor all did the same.
“Mr. Nichols, you clearly have our attention,” she said when she was able to find her voice again.
Chapter 22
The Ghost brought the toothpick he was holding in his right hand to his mouth and began working to free a miniscule piece of ham which had lodged itself in between two of his molars.
Terrorizing innocent victims always seemed to go better on a full stomach. A delicious omelet of grilled ham, white asparagus sweet pepper, and onions, and potato hash mixed with the perfect blend of Chimay blue and basil was all topped of by a magnificent cup of French-brewed coffee. Sel De La Terre, his favorite five star restaurant in Boston, had really outdone itself.
The food had re-energized him, now he could focus his full attention on the tasks at hand. By the end of this day, he would have possession of Excalibur, Blackburn would be dead, and he would be several million dollars richer. Life was indeed good.
Carrying the case in his left hand, he crossed the street to his awaiting vehicle. The Trailblazer’s lights blinked on and then off in response to his pushing the red unlock button on the black fob connected to the key ring he’d removed from the front pocket of his black Caraceni designer slacks. He picked up his pace as he approached his awaiting chariot. He was definitely feeling giddy at the prospect of wrapping up all his loose ends before the day was out.
He carefully laid the case containing the now translated document on the passenger’s seat. With the care he took, one would have thought it was a fragile piece of glassware instead of an attaché case designed to withstand the impact of an explosive device.
He had spent the time it took to fly from Washington D.C. to Boston catching up on some sleep as well as studying the document. With the use of his laptop computer, he scanned the internet for maps and information, and was certain he knew exactly where the fabled sword of Arthur was hiding.
King’s Chapel. A more appropriately named place, there could not be, he thought. Now, it was only a matter of going and claiming his prize.
In all his worldly travels, he’d only been to Boston a handful of times, and thus did not know the city all that well, beyond the locations of the best nightclubs and five star restaurants. His internet research had helped pinpoint the address of King’s Chapel. It was on the corners of Tremont and School Streets in South Boston, in one of the oldest districts in the city. If his calculations were correct, that part of Boston dated all the way back to the Revolutionary War era. It was there the first part of his journey would come to an end.
He carefully scanned the different street names as he drove, until he came to the corner of School and Tremont. There on the corner was King’s Chapel.
It was really not all that impressive in his estimation, reminding him of a smaller, shabbier version of the Supreme Court. Instead of a bright white marble, however, the Revolutionary War era place of worship was made from what looked like a dull gray granite. The chapel was nothing awe-inspiring, but if the document sitting on the seat next to him was to be believed, what was hidden somewhere in the depths of the chapel’s basement made this place special.
He pulled the Trailblazer around to the side of King’s Chapel and utilized the public parking. From there he was able to get a good look at the cemetery which shared the land and was part of the tourist attraction associated with the centuries old chapel.
Many of the headstones had been faded by time and the harsh elements so the names and dates were now unreadable. Several of the grave markers were elaborate with handcrafted scrollwork from a bygone era. The attention to detail was magnificent, and under different circumstances he may have taken a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship. Somet
hing else had caught his eye however, and left him with an uneasy feeling. The entire front of King’s Chapel was covered with scaffolding as a large restoration project of sorts was obviously under way.
The presence of construction workers scurrying about the scaffolding caused a nagging in the back of his mind. He would have to proceed with caution, all of his senses on full alert.
He chanced a look at the bracelet on his wrist, and briefly considered drawing on its power. But he still had the confrontation with Blackburn to think about, and when he finally met up with the agent, he wanted to be at his full strength. Instead, he popped the clasps on the case and removed a copy of the translated document. He folded it long ways one time, and slid it into the same inside pocket which contained the directions to the chapel.
It was a short walk from the parking lot to the entrance of King’s Chapel. Despite the snow and cooler than normal temperatures, there was still a good sized crowd out front. He could make out the restoration project workers, staff, and a number of tourists. He knew from checking the chapel’s website that tours were offered regularly as long as a religious service was not in session. He had been banking on no such service, and from the number of people milling about waiting for the tours to begin, knew he had guessed right. All was going according to plan.
His idea was a simple one. He would join a tour like the rest of the peons, and then, once inside, he would slip away. He would then make his way to the basement and search until he found Excalibur. If anyone stopped him, he could easily claim he had simply gotten lost. If all else failed, he would call on the magic and make himself invisible to those around him. He would only do that if it was his final option, however.
He realized he probably did not look like a typical tourist, but at this point, so close to obtaining Excalibur, he did not really care. He was focused with a single minded determination on the recovery of King Arthur’s legendary sword. If the idiots happened to notice him or notice something out of the ordinary, he would give a thought to dispatching them at a later time.