The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  Seeing a crowd of those very same peons starting to gather at the entrance, he quickened his own pace to catch up. He wanted to get inside as soon as possible. The sooner he could get his hands on Excalibur, the sooner he could be on his way, and the sooner he could exact a measure of his own style of revenge against Special Agent Reggie Blackburn.

  When the heavily polished oak front door opened, the crowd was ushered in by the tour guide that time forgot. The Ghost had no idea how old this shrew was, but she looked ancient. The old crone began launching into her well rehearsed spiel as the dozen or so of the group filed in.

  “King’s Chapel is one of the oldest in the entire country. It was first built in 1687…”

  The old woman’s voice sounded like someone stepping on dry corn husks, but he did not pay her much attention. As soon as he had entered the chapel he began scanning the area.

  There was no doubting the chapel was old. The interior had that feel of having seen countless decades. The weight of having experienced so many years had settled into every nook and cranny of the place. Some wear and tear had begun to show, and as a result, the restoration project had moved inside as well. When he noticed more scaffolding filled with workers doing repairs to one corner of the high vaulted ceiling, he once again experienced the same nagging sensation in the back of his mind as before. He was not sure why but something was setting off his instinctual warning bell.

  As the tour guide droned on, he and the rest of the group made their way down the center aisle, moving toward the altar. One of the construction workers climbed down the scaffolding carrying a bucket filled with liquid of some kind. The worker, who was covered in plaster dust, disappeared through a door located directly under the scaffolding.

  The Ghost watched with curiosity piqued. The group of tourists moved to another part of the chapel, but he remained rooted to his spot. After a couple of minutes, the worker returned through the same door except now the bucket he carried was empty and most of the plaster dust had been brushed off. There must have been some kind of washroom or utility room behind the door. If he had to guess, he would say the entrance to the basement would be in that general direction as well.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the group of people he had walked into the chapel with. They were enthralled by the information the old guide was spewing, and no one had noticed he had not bothered to join them. In fact, they were not paying any attention to him at all.

  Without any further hesitation, the Ghost began making his own way to the other side of the chapel where the door was located. He walked calmly and confidently, giving off an air of a person who knew exactly where he was going. He hoped this would make anyone who did happen to notice his presence and register the fact he was somewhat out of place think twice before speaking up and questioning him.

  As it turned out, no one appeared to care what he was doing, because he was able to get to the door without incident. He tested the knob, and, finding that it was not locked, let himself in.

  He was surprised to find a well lit hall instead of some sort of janitor’s closet or work station. From what he could see, there were several doors lining both sides of the hall all the way down until it ended in a T-section.

  The sound of a toilet flushing off to his left grabbed his attention. He heard a faucet being turned on and off, followed by the noisy blowing of an electric hand dryer. Signs marked the two doors as public restrooms. The sounds were emanating from the ladies’ room.

  When the sound of the dryer kicked off, he quickly stepped towards the men’s restroom. Whoever was in there might find it suspicious if he was loitering in front of the ladies’ room.

  Sure enough, he heard the sound of the door opening as he stepped into the men’s room. Luckily, it was empty. He stayed close to the door, listening intently. He heard footsteps as the lady who exited the bathroom walked down the hall. He waited until the sounds had faded into nothingness, and then counted to an even fifty before leaving the men’s room.

  The hall was deserted once again. He looked around for any type of security cameras or devices, but did not spot any. He snickered in derision at how trusting these fools were. Granted, from what he had seen of King’s Chapel, the place contained little of value. Still, he had expected far more security in a place which was hiding one of the most famous historical relics known to man.

  The lack of security protocol did bother him, but he pushed the anxiousness it caused out of his thoughts as he made his way down the corridor. He paused before each door, hoping to find some sign to the basement. So far all he’d found were the bathrooms, offices of various chapel employees, and one large boardroom. He was not discouraged, however, as he knew he must be close. He was in the inner workings of the chapel, and it was only a matter of time before he would find what he needed.

  When he reached the T-section, he turned right, onto a much shorter hallway that came to a dead-end. He could see a large red box hanging on the wall in the center of the right-hand side. A single door was on the far side of the box. As he moved closer he recognized the red box as that of a fire hose encased in glass to be broken in the event of an emergency. This brought a knowing grin to his face.

  He passed the fire emergency equipment with barely a glance. The door was marked “Employees Only” and had a sign with what looked like blue stairs etched on it. This was clearly the entrance into the chapel’s basement.

  He tried the gold-colored lever in place of a regular round door knob, and as he thought, found it locked. He took another look around and, seeing no one, removed the same tools he had used to let himself into the translator’s apartment. With the same practiced ease, he picked the lock in mere seconds. The grin on his face grew even wider as he saw cement steps leading down into the darkness below.

  He flicked the light switch located just inside the door. When the soft yellow glow filled the stairwell, he quickly shut the door behind him so the light would alert anyone who may happen to wander by. He waited, listening for several seconds to make sure no one was already in the basement, and to make sure he had not inadvertently tripped some alarm when he had picked the lock and opened the door. Only silence answered him, so he cautiously began his descent.

  The bulb created a semicircle on the hard unfinished floor after the last step. He stood bathed in the light, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkened basement. As it stood now, he could only make out dark shapes and shadows. He had no sense of direction or depth yet, and therefore was not sure how large the basement even was. It could be one huge open space or several rooms used for various storage space.

  He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and removed the folded sheet of paper. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The basement was overly warm, and he could hear the soft hum of what he guessed was the furnace from somewhere in the shadowy dark.

  He looked over the translated directions. Satisfied, he returned the paper to his pocket, and took a couple of steps into the dark. His eyes had adjusted as much as they were going to and he could now make out rows of shelves and workbenches creating a labyrinth. Every available space was used for storage of boxes, old furniture, and what appeared to be nothing but plan old junk. The basement was immense, appearing to go forever much like the ocean does to someone seeing it for the first time. Finding the sword was going to be more difficult than even he had anticipated.

  He ventured a glance at the ceiling. It was only a couple feet above his head, giving the basement a claustrophobic feel. Several bare light bulbs sat in fixtures with pull strings hanging down. He moved over to the closest of these lights and gave the string a hard yank. With a loud clicking, the immediate area was filled with the same yellow glow as the stairwell. He continued to make his way through the maze of shelves, turning on lights as he went. He had an excellent sense of direction, moving to what he knew to be the northern corner. This, according to the document, was where he would find Excalibur.

  The cellar was dry, which was surprising for
how old it was. This was a credit to the long dead mason workers who toiled away several centuries ago laying the chapel’s foundation. Of course the basement had been updated since then, but the initial groundwork had been laid in the 1700’s. The absence of moisture meant there was no mildew or mold. There was, however, a fine layer of dust covering everything in sight. A musty smell accompanied the filth, giving the basement the feel of an ancient tomb.

  The Ghost brushed at some of the fine dust which clung to his coat. He’d inadvertently bumped into what appeared to be an old piano bench piled on top of old office furniture in the style of something out of the 1970’s. After removing the dirt, he cursed under his breath and continued on his way, trying to avoid touching any of the refuse as he passed.

  Even though several lights were now on, most of the basement was still encased in shadows. He still could not see an end to the rows of junk. He chanced a look back, but the stairs were now lost from sight. At this rate he would need a survival kit and compass. With all the junk down here, he had no doubt that if he looked long enough he would find whatever survival gear he needed. The thought did not give him comfort.

  As he continued to make his way to the north corner, it was like stepping backwards through time. Every aisle he turned down was another decade or era. He figured when he finally made it through the maze of junk to his destination, he might truly run into items which had been stored down in this infernal hole since the place had been built. He would not be surprised if he even came across the bleached bones of the original builders left here after a cave in of garbage.

  After what felt like a ridiculous amount of time had passed, he spotted the brick wall marking the end of the basement. He still had to double back and take a separate aisle before the mounds of junk opened up. There was not much light here. He looked around for one of the overhanging bulbs, but there were none nearby so he would have to make do. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring along a flashlight. He always prided himself on being so well-prepared for all contingencies, but not this time.

  He unclipped his cell phone from his belt and flipped it open. Using the glow from the display screen, he slowly traced the phone down the corner, scanning the ancient bricks. Approximately halfway down, he found markings carved into one of the bricks. He moved his face to within inches of the wall in an attempt to get a better look. He even ran his finger across the spot in question. Feeling the grooves made by whoever had carved the small sword symbol into the brick, his mood picked up considerably.

  As per the translated directions, he slid his hand to the brick directly across the corner from the one with the sword marking. He pushed on one end and felt it move slightly. He pushed harder, causing the mortar to crumble. As if it was on a swivel, the brick swung out long way at its center. He then put his hand on the part of the brick now jutting out, and shoved it back into the wall until it was flush.

  There was a pause in which nothing happened, and he began to wonder if he had done something wrong. He was considering consulting the instructions again when a grinding noise reverberated across the basement. It sounded as if some large creature was clearing its throat after waking up from an extended nap. He held his breath, and waited to see what would happen next with impatient anticipation.

  A section of the wall started to move inward. There was a large release of stale air, filled with dust that enveloped him in a grimy cloud. The smell was nauseating, and he found himself trying to cough and sneeze at the same time. Neither function was successful, and he continued to choke on the thick dust-filled air.

  The cloud finally dissipated enough for him to catch his breath. After sucking in a lungful of cleaner air, he saw the hidden door was now completely revealed. A six by four foot section, which only seconds before had been perfectly hidden as part of the brick wall, now stood partially open. According to the document those Irish fools had brought with them to this country, Arthur’s sword Excalibur was lying in wait in the hidden room beyond.

  With his excitement mounting, the Ghost reached out with both hands and pushed. The wall swung easily inward, almost knocking him off balance. He had expected it to be heavy and unwieldy, yet it moved as smoothly as if it was attached to well-oiled hinges.

  He stepped into an eight-by-eight room. The walls were made from similar bricks as to the rest of basement. There was no light save for what little filtered in from outside. This caused some exaggerated shadowing throughout the chamber, but he could make out the stone altar in the exact center of the room.

  Thinking the raised stone dais to be akin to a sarcophagus, he walked over, preparing to push a heavy stone lid. As he approached, he saw that it was all one piece. There were no seams visible. He wondered if, like the door to the chamber, there was some sort of hidden catch or lever. Then he noticed two forked metal rods set into the top of the altar, and a sinking feeling began to settle over him.

  The metal rods were placed far enough apart and fashioned in a way that would be perfect to hold a broadsword. He refused to admit he might have been duped, and did his best to convince himself maybe this was some elaborate distraction to fool anyone who might have stumbled onto the secret door by chance.

  In the blue glow from the phone he looked again at the paper. When something on the floor caught his attention, he knelt to get a better look, and felt whatever hope he had of still finding Excalibur in this room come crashing down.

  There in the dust he could make out a set of footprints different than his own. They were partially covered by dirt, and had been there for some time. At least a few years. Someone had been in this chamber sometime within the past few years, and removed Excalibur.

  An overwhelming fury swept over him. He stood, the paper slipping from his hand, and threw his cell phone with every ounce of strength his angered state could muster. The small piece of modern technology shattered into state-of-the-art shrapnel as it connected with the unforgiving brick wall.

  He burst back out of the chamber in a blind rage, and shoved the first thing he reached. Metal shelving filled with years worth of forgotten junk toppled over, echoing with the sound of a mini avalanche. Like a petulant child, he continued to kick and hit anything in his path, yelling out his frustration in one long stream of vile curses.

  When his anger was finally sated, and he was once more controlled by reason and rational thought, he was able to regain his composure. He still trembled from the aftershocks of his temper tantrum working their way through his system. He found himself standing amidst deposed shelves and broken knick-knacks from another decade. Realizing how much noise and commotion his tirade had undoubtedly caused, he knew he had to get out of this underground prison and the King’s Chapel now.

  Haste was more important than stealth. He made his way haphazardly through the maze of refuse to the stairs leading up and out of the basement. It took longer than he liked, as he had to double back after turning down wrong aisles to find himself at dead-ends. Finally, he emerged into the soft yellow light marking the staircase.

  He climbed up the steps two at a time. No one was in the small hallway. He half walked and half jogged around the corner and down the longer corridor. He could see the door which would allow him access back into the main worship area. He was not about to take any chances.

  A man in a well-tailored suit stepped out of the same men’s room he himself had hid in a short while ago. The man looked up in time to see the Ghost’s fist come slamming down into his temple, and crumpled to the floor as if someone had pulled his plug and let all the air out.

  The Ghost continued through the door, not slowing down at all after eliminating the potential obstacle and witness. Back under the scaffolding being used by the restoration project workers, he remembered the uneasy feeling he had experienced upon first seeing them, and now understood why. With the King’s Chapel undergoing a major facelift, whoever else knew about Excalibur had removed the blade out of precaution, so it would not be accidentally discovered.

  T
he tour he had entered with was nowhere to be found, not that he cared. He made his way up the aisle until he exited out the front door. The sun momentarily blinded him after spending all that time in the darkened basement. It took a few seconds before he got his bearings back, and he returned to the parking lot and his awaiting vehicle.

  Once he was inside the Trailblazer another fit of rage overtook him. He pounded his fists into the steering wheel until a slippery wetness ran down his wrists. The sight of the garishly red blood dripping onto his pant legs was enough to quell the tide of his anger.

  He had unwittingly been outmaneuvered, and that was unacceptable. Someone was going to pay. An evil grin replaced the dangerous scowl on his twisted face. He still had Blackburn and his female companion to deal with. Maybe their luck would be better than his and they could lead him to Excalibur. Or give it to him; he was sure Blackburn would trade the sword for the woman’s life. All was not lost, he would simply have to adjust his timetable.

  Hearing the sound of sirens nearing the chapel, he knew it was time to leave. He fired the SUV up, actually passing a police cruiser as he pulled back onto Tremont Street and drove away. He did not spare a second glance, however; he had work to do.

  Unnoticed by the Ghost as he made his hasty retreat out of King’s Chapel, a worker who had previously placed a phone call now placed another.

  After dialing, the worker waited for his superior to pick up on the other end. When the superior did, he passed on his information.

  “Yes, our second party has fled the premises, and he left empty handed.”

  “I see,” a voice on the other end said before hanging up.

  The worker closed his phone, slipped it back into the front pocket of his work overalls, and returned to his job of repairing an area of water damage to the chapel’s ceiling.

  —Chapter 23

  “I can see I have managed to render you somewhat speechless, Agent Sommers,” Nicholas said.