by Shawn Oetzel
“Now that the Ghost has Excalibur he will have to get in touch with the Na Ri` Laoch,” she said, feeling hopeful they were on to something. “If we could somehow track the terrorist group we might find the Ghost and Excalibur at the same time.”
“The British government keeps tabs on all known active IRA cells. I accessed that information. It seems around a month ago the Na Ri` Laoch made a withdrawal of 5 million dollars from their operating account and deposited it in an offshore Cayman Island account. The name on the account was Entertainment Incorporated. After a little more digging I was able to discern this is a dummy corporation run by someone named James Clauson. I don’t know who this Clauson is, but this was right around the time the Ghost made his appearance.”
She paused for a few seconds, thinking. The name James Clauson sounded eerily familiar. She began rifling through her notes until she came across the list of names Reggie had put together of possible aliases used by the Ghost. She found the name she was looking for third from the bottom of the page. What feelings of exhaustion she had been experiencing vanished as her excitement mounted.
“James Clauson is on Reggie’s list,” she said, her voice sounding shaky in her ears. “Clauson could be the Ghost.”
Without saying a word, but with eyes as large as saucers, Ambrosius turned his attention back to the computer in front of him. He punched in the potential alias, and the man’s information flashed onto the monitor.
“Could it really be that easy?” he whispered. “He’s been right here under our noses the entire time?”
“What are you rambling on about?”
“James Clauson owns The End, a trendy and popular nightclub right here in London,” he said, and this time she could hear his own excitement begin to rise, matching her own.
A chiming sound rang from the computer, interrupting their moment of potential triumph. Not knowing what the noise meant, she watched as Ambrosius closed out the page regarding James Clauson and opened another window. From what she could see looking over his shoulder, it appeared to be a page dedicated to information on the Na Ri` Laoch.
“You know, for someone close to 900 years old, you sure know your way around a computer pretty well,” she said. She laughed as he turned and looked at her with upraised eyebrows.
“Honestly, Agent Sommers,” he said. “I am a magician, after all.”
“Riiight,” she said, still chuckling.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, once he returned his attention back to the computer screen.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It would seem three of the top leader’s of the Na Ri` Laoch were spotted entering London by train sometime after 2am,” Ambrosius said.
“You mean the same guys who sprung for the Ghost’s services are in London right now as we speak?” she asked incredulously.
“This is no mere coincidence,” Ambrosius said.
“We’ve got to get a look at that nightclub,” she said.
“Agreed,” Ambrosius said. “Grab your coat, Agent Sommers, while I make arrangements to get us a car.”
—Chapter 30
The Ghost enjoyed the quiet solitude the empty club afforded him in the hours before it opened for business. He felt a strange sense of peace within these gaudy walls which allowed him to relax; a tough chore for one in his profession.
Glancing at his gold Rolex, he knew he had at least one more good hour before the club’s employees began to arrive. That gave him plenty of time to prepare for his guests. The three members of the Na Ri` Laoch would be here around closing time. Good. Fewer potential witnesses for what he had planned.
The fools who had hired him had been all too ready to come running like lapdogs, eager for their prize. What those imbeciles did not realize however was instead of coming to claim Excalibur for their own idiotic schemes, they would be walking into the proverbial lion’s den.
He had no intention of handing over such a valuable treasure to a group of small time terrorists. Excalibur was safely tucked away in his wall safe. Disposing of his employers just tied up one more loose end. There was the worry of some kind of reprisal from the Na Ri’ Laoch, but he was unfazed. In his estimation, once the head of the serpent was removed, the body died. And the three heads of the Na Ri` Laoch would be here later this evening. They were the real flies about to be caught in a web of his spinning.
His thoughts kept harkening back to Blackburn’s demise, which always seemed to brighten his mood, but also served as a reminder of the female agent he had left alive. Had it been a mistake? He’d been pressed for time.
He returned to his office, which overlooked the dance floor. It was deserted now, but in another couple of hours it would be crammed with writhing bodies moving in rhythm to the god-awful thumping of techno music which the club’s patrons seemed to love. Ahmet, the head bartender, arrived and began preparing his work station. Soon the rest of his employees would come filtering in, and his fortress of solitude would be no more.
The Ghost, continuing to feel a nagging sensation deep within himself, knew he was being warned of some impending danger. The intricately carved jaguar on the bracelet at his wrist seemed to be staring at him with a renewed intensity. Before this night was over, he was positive he would be calling on its magic.
Something to do with the Na Ri` Laoch? But they were harmless for all intents and purposes. No, the danger lay elsewhere. Once again his thoughts drifted to Agent Amy Sommers. Might she be tied into how the events of this evening would play out?
Exhilaration replaced the uncomfortable nagging he was experiencing. It was moments like these he absolutely lived for, that made him feel alive. This was what those fools at the Agency could never understand. It was not so much the kill, though that was quite exquisite in its own right, but the hunt that drove him. If Agent Sommers did make an unexpected appearance, then the game would definitely be afoot.
He hoped Blackburn’s protégé would show up. He would enjoy showing her some of his special attention before he bled her dry.
The sound of the remaining nightclub staff entering and setting up filled the quiet of his office. He glanced at his watch once again.
Only a few more hours before it was show time, and the Ghost was ready to entertain his visitors, both invited and unexpected.
—Chapter 31
From the outside, the club did not look like anything special. It was a large two-story brick building from a by-gone era, much like the old warehouses Sommers had seen back in Los Angeles. The only thing which marked it as something other was the gold plating framed in a square arch around the entrance. The club’s name, “THE END,” was written above the door in shiny silver block letters.
A parking spot along the curb on the opposite side of the street, gave them a clear view of The End. Now, all they could do was wait and watch.
The hours drifted by in an exhaustion filled haze. Sommers and Ambrosius took turns napping while the other continued their vigil. The car became littered with coffee cups and food wrappers as they fueled their bodies with caffeine and sugar.
She thought about Reggie almost constantly. The last few seconds of his life, as the Ghost had poured bullet after bullet into Reggie’s chest, played out in her mind over and over again.
Ambrosius remained quiet. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him, but this did not seem like the appropriate time. He was anxious though, that she could tell, and she could hardly blame him. This stakeout could inevitably lead to the end of his centuries long journey, one way or another.
The members of the Na Ri` Laoch had apparently gone to ground since their arrival in London. She knew they would not be coming out for anything less than the fabled sword. The Ghost had not put in an appearance either. Unsurprising. There was no way they would get lucky enough to catch the assassin strolling down the street. The Ghost would not poke his head out until it was necessary and he knew it was safe. When the Ghost finally did poke that head of his out, however, she fully intended to
blow it off.
The Ghost was sitting with his feet propped on the desk’s top, enjoying a very dry vodka martini, when the cell phone resting next to his expensive Italian loafers began vibrating. He frowned in annoyance. This particular phone was to be used only by the Na Ri` Laoch. It was their only means of contacting him.
“You’re early,” he said as soon as he flipped the phone open. His voice was charged with menace as his anger began to simmer.
“Does it really matter?” an Irish accented voice asked from the other end of the line.
“It does if you want this deal to go down,” he said, not trying to hide the threat behind his words.
There was a pause before anyone replied. He smiled in spite of his sour mood as he pictured the fool cowering and becoming flummoxed.
“Calm down,” said the Irish voice belonging to Colin O’Conner. “We may have to make different arrangements.”
“And why is that?” he asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.
“Look, we are taking on a lot of heat just being here in London,” O’Conner said. “The quicker we can make the exchange, the quicker we can return home. I don’t know how much longer our presence here will go unnoticed.”
If the fools had any kind of sense, they would know they’d more than likely been spotted the second they entered the city. Suppose they did something stupid and got themselves arrested? He would lose his opportunity to tie up a loose end.
“Fine,” the Ghost said through clenched teeth. “The club opens at 9pm. Be here by 10:00. But I swear if you are one second late the deal is off, and you will never get your hands on what it is you want. Is this understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good,” he said before hanging up.
seething, he reached out, grabbed his martini glass, and finished off the contents. He threw the glass as hard as he could across the office, where it smashed into countless shards against the far wall.
This was actually a smart move on the Na Ri` Laoch’s part, forcing him to have to interact with them while there were plenty of witnesses around.
Well if those fools thought they were safe, they were going to be quite surprised. By his reasoning all they’d done was to shorten their lives by a few hours.
He smiled anew as he called down to the bar and ordered a new drink.
“Agent Sommers!”
She nearly wrenched her back when she shot bolt upright in response to Ambrosius’ voice. She did not know how long she had been curled up on the backseat asleep, but the sun had gone down, leaving the street bathed in the white light of a streetlamp. She glanced out the windshield in the direction of the club, and saw a crowd growing in the front of The End’s entrance.
“I believe a few of our pigeons have come home to roost,” Ambrosius said.
He was still sitting in the driver’s seat, turned to the side to face her. The light from the laptop painted his face in an eerie green glow, giving him a ghoulish appearance. The excited grimace he had only added to the effect as he motioned in the direction of the club.
“Is it the Ghost?” she asked hopefully.
“No, but I do believe a few of his business associates are paying him a visit,” Ambrosius said. “The IRA terrorists?” she asked.
His only response was a nod. She followed Ambrosius’ gaze as he turned to look out the windshield. A splash of red hair among the line of patrons trying to gain entrance into the nightclub caught her attention. She focused in on the man and saw him conversing with two other younger gentlemen. She watched them closely before looking back at Ambrosius.
“Are you sure it’s them?”
He did not answer, but she accepted the laptop he handed over the seat to her. She studied the mug shots on the monitor and recognized the middle photo as that of the person currently entering the club. The other two she was not as sure about, but there was no question the dark-haired individual was Colin O’Connor, leader of the Na Ri` Laoch.
“What’s our next move?” she asked.
“I think we need to get inside The End.”
“Okay,” she said checking her firearm before slipping it back into her shoulder holster. “I gotta warn you though; I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Don’t worry, Agent Sommers, I’ll lead.”
As soon as the office phone on his desk rang, the Ghost knew his guests had arrived. Since the Na Ri` Laoch had forced his hand by insisting to come earlier than he intended, he decided a change of plan was in order.
A poison he had picked up in South Africa would do nicely. He kept a special case of champagne laced with it in the club’s wine cellar. He ordered one of the bottles brought to his office chilled and ready to serve.
He walked over to the windows to look down at all the clubbers who frequented his establishment. With its spring-loaded dance floor and five-way crossover sound-system, The End had quickly become a mainstay of London’s club scene.
Tonight was no different. Even though it was still relatively early the place was already starting to fill up. The club’s revelers seemed to be jumping in unison to the thumping beat of the techno music his DJ had cranked up to near full volume. The whole scene sickened him, and had he not needed this place as a safe house of operations, he would have happily blown it into kindling with everyone still inside.
This thought brought a malicious grin to his face. He remained lost in his private fantasy until another knock at the office door brought him back to reality.
“Enter,” he said with a hint of amusement hidden in his voice.
His young and perky club manager led three men into his office. Two of the men seemed almost jubilant, but the third was a little more reserved. The Ghost knew this man was O’Connor, the leader of this trio. He noted that while O’Connor’s comrades looked as if they wanted to join the party going on down on the dance floor, O’Connor looked cautious and on edge. This could be trouble.
“Gentlemen, please come in and make yourselves at home. Then we can attend to our business,” he said, motioning for the three members of the Na Ri` Laoch to have a seat in the office’s plush furniture before turning to his manager. “Thank you, Gretchen. That will be all.”
“Yes sir,” his pretty employee said, before leaving the office and closing the door behind her. O’Connor and his cronies stared after Gretchen luridly.
“I hope your trip was satisfactory,” he said, trying to play the proper host.
“We have no complaints,” O’Connor said.
“Good…good,” he said. “Perhaps you gentlemen would care to partake in some of London’s nightlife.”
“We’re just here for the sword,” O’Connor said, to the obvious disappointment of his partners.
“Shall we get down to business then?” The Ghost asked, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
—Chapter 32
“Tell me we’re not going to have to wait in line,” Sommers said.
“I think a flash of the badge should give us a free pass,” Ambrosius replied.
They’d watched as the terrorists were quickly ushered into The End by a young woman Sommers guessed to be the club’s manager. Once the three men were inside, she and Ambrosius went into motion.
She heard a few grumbles and complaints from the people waiting outside as she and Ambrosius bypassed the crowded line and moved to the front door. She ignored them, however, as there were far more important dramas about to be played out.
A loud rhythmic thumping came from the club’s entrance. She could see Ambrosius conversing with a large doorman, but the music was so loud she could not make out their words. When she saw the British agent show his badge and identification she had a pretty good guess as to what was going on.
The bouncer nodded, which had to be quite a chore; the man’s neck looked as thick as a tree trunk. With barely a second glance the man opened the door and waved them inside.
The pulsating music was so loud she could feel the vibrations throughout her body, especially in her
chest. It momentarily took her breath away. Ambroisus, an anxious look on his face, tugged on her arm and motioned for her to follow as he moved deeper into The End.
There were not as many people as she had thought there would be. Maybe fifty or sixty clubbers were milling about dancing and drinking, but from the ever growing line outside it would not take long for the place to fill up.
With the blinking colored lights, wafting smoke, thumping techno beat, and stainless steel look of the club, Amy felt like she had just stepped onto the set of a low budget 1970’s Sci-Fi movie. She experienced a sense of vertigo. It took several seconds for the disorientation to pass. In the meantime she tried to survey the club’s layout and see if she could catch sight of the three terrorists.
“I don’t see them!” She had to shout to be heard over the music.
Ambrosius did not bother to answer. He squinted his eyes as he continued trying to spot their targets.
“May I be of service to you, officers?” the pretty blonde manager asked, approaching them. Her perfume smelled of lavender, which only added to the assault on the senses.
The fact the woman knew they were some sort of law enforcement officers was not lost on Sommers. She figured this info had come from the doorman, and further guessed this meant their presence had not gone unnoticed.
“We would like to speak to your boss,” she said on a whim.
This surprised the blonde, and she paused before replying. “I am afraid he is otherwise detained. Is there something I can help you with?”
“It is very important we speak with your boss. We believe he may be in danger,” Amy said, playing a hunch. “If you could point us in the direction of his office we would appreciate it.”
She watched the woman closely, and was not surprised when the blonde spared a quick look at a bank of tinted windows on the second floor overlooking the dance floor, unwittingly telling her where they needed to go. Ignoring the manager’s objections, she and Ambrosius began making their way across the club toward a staircase on the opposite wall. They were weaving their way through the throng of writhing bodies of clubbers on the dance floor when the all too familiar sound of gunshots came from somewhere above. One of the darkened windows shattered with a fresh round of gunfire.