by Sam Christer
She nods. ‘Still, it’s best you go. I’ll look after the girls while you’re away, but when you come back, I don’t want you staying here. I want you out, Mitzi. I’ll pay for a motel – anything – but I don’t want you under my roof again, not anywhere near my husband.’
18
ROCK CREEK TRAIL, MARYLAND
Soil falls in clumps from the corpse as the ME’s team lift it out of the shallow grave and rest it respectfully on a thick plastic sheet.
Irish squints to get his first full look at the vic. He has dark hair and is well-built. He’s dressed in a blue linen jacket, faded denims, a white T-shirt with the word DIESEL across the chest and ankle-length suede boots. His skin has been paled by death – dried out, cracked and creased by mud and earth.
Cherrie Archer, the examiner who worked Amir Goldman’s case, uses a soft brush to clear insects from dead eyes. She looks up at the detective and anticipates his question. ‘Right now, all I can tell you is what you can see. He’s male, late twenties, well-nourished, around a hundred and seventy pounds. Looks perfectly fit and healthy, except for being strangled to death.’
‘No gun or knife?’
‘Not that I see.’
Irish had expected a weapon. ‘Did the unsub use a ligature?’ He works his way around the pit so he can stand next to her and the body.
‘I don’t think so. The body’s quite dirty, though.’ She leans across and inspects the neck from several angles. ‘I can’t see any ligature marks, but look here…’ She points. ‘There’s bruising, abrasion, as though he’s been held from behind in a very strong choke hold.’
Irish bends over the corpse. ‘I see it. How would it have been done?’
‘Stand up and turn away from me.’
He does as he’s told.
Up close, Irish’s odour of sweat and alcohol is worse than the corpse’s. She ignores it while she uses her right arm to demonstrate a v-shaped lock on him. ‘The assailant probably jammed his head in the crook of his arm and then swung him up and over his hip.’ She leans a little so Irish can feel the choke.
‘Whoa, whoa, enough. I get it!’
She lets go. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ He rubs his neck.
‘Hold a person long enough like that and they choke out. Keep doing it and they die.’ She moves back to the body. ‘I used to be a soldier. Learned close-combat skills along with medicine in the Marine Corps.’
‘I see.’ Irish carries on nursing his neck. ‘I guess not many guys took first dates too far with you, then?’
‘Not many.’
He turns his head left and right to free the cricks in his neck. ‘You got any gloves? I want to go through his pockets.’
She dips into her coveralls and produces a spare vinyl pair. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look pretty pale.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Apart from being half-killed by you, I picked up a cold, that’s all.’ Irish stretches the gloves and works his fingers inside. Truth is he feels weak as a kitten and wants to sleep for a year.
The vic’s jeans yield a squashed carton of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, sticks of gum and the corner of a newspaper. There is a Washington phone number written on it. Irish pulls out his cell and calls it. The techies told him there’s a facility to record calls but he can’t remember how to do it.
The call beeps out and trips a message service.
An old voice, slow and precise, rolls down the line. ‘This is Amir Goldman; I’m not available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone – and be sure to visit our showroom in Kensington, the antiques capital of DC.’
Irish hangs up and looks at the scrap of paper. The dead man lying in front of him no doubt called Amir to check he was in the store. Then he turned up and killed him. ‘I need this bum’s prints, ASAP.’ He peels off his gloves and dumps them on the sheet. ‘Thanks, doc.’
19
THE BRONX, NEW YORK
Nabil stinks of garage grease. He hates the smell almost as much as he hates America.
It rides with him now, an unwelcome passenger in the cab of the white flatbed truck that he’s ‘borrowed’ from work to get home. Even in here, he can’t get away from it.
The twenty-four-year-old parks outside a verminous brownstone apartment block and climbs filthy stairs to the sixth floor. There’s no point trying the lift; he can’t remember when it last worked – doubts it ever will again.
He lets himself in to his short-term rental and slams the door so hard it makes the frame tremble. Hopefully, it pisses off the old guy next door who beats on the paper-thin wall every night.
He goes straight to the squalid kitchen, pulls a ready meal of Mac and Cheese from the refrigerator, forks the top and puts it in the microwave. While it cooks, he sticks his phone to his ear and speed-dials the only number on the handset.
‘It’s Nabil. I’m home.’
That’s all he says. All he ever says when he enters the apartment.
But it’s enough. It’s what’s expected of him. A coded phrase to let them know he’s alive.
Safe.
Not captured or killed.
20
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
Gwyn’s ivy-covered stately home has ten bedrooms, two dining rooms, a library, drawing room, study, orangery, two reception and living rooms, a ballroom, gymnasium, indoor and outdoor pools and more than thirty acres of heavily fortified and constantly guarded grounds.
He and his wife have a live-in chef, who has previously held two Michelin stars. All vegetable produce is grown in the house’s gardens, fish comes from the private lakes and meat and poultry from the estate’s farmland. It’s quite a place to come home to.
Outside the mansion’s great arched entrance door are the figures of waiting footmen and his wife, Jennifer. Lady Gwyn’s waist-length blonde hair is being blown by the down draft of helicopter blades and her silky amber dress sparkles in the bright sunlight.
Within moments of the copter’s door being opened, Owain’s in her arms. Holding. Kissing. Reconnecting.
She takes his hand and hurries him inside, away from the noise of the dying motors.
‘There’s a call,’ she says in the quiet shade of the marbled hall. ‘It’s from Gareth, he says he couldn’t get through while you were in the air.’
He takes it on an encrypted phone.
‘I’m sorry not to give you any time with Jennifer,’ says Madoc. ‘I’ve just had a message from Antun. Things are changing. The cell commander is nervous. A target has been fixed.’
‘Does he know where and when?’
‘Wall Street, tomorrow.’
‘Wall Street? Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. More importantly, he’s sure. I’m going to send you the details of where they’re plotting up, so you can talk to the Americans.’
Owain checks his watch. ‘I’ve got the Inner Circle meeting in an hour.’
‘It’ll be after that.’ He takes a long pause. ‘Are you going to tell them everything?’
‘I have to, Gareth. We have no option. Our old “friend” has left us with no choice but to issue the mandate.’
21
KENSINGTON, MARYLAND
Irish is at the bar; a bottle of beer and a whisky chaser stand at his elbow.
Two women in their forties sit on stools around him, glasses of white wine in their hands.
Sarah Cohen has short brown hair and a wide mouth. Suzie Clark is a bleached blonde with strong blue eyes. They work stores either side of Goldman Antiques and for the past hour Irish has been buying drinks in return for information.
‘I was away when those uniformed police came by,’ explains Sarah. ‘Getting my things from my ex’s place.’ She emphasizes the past tense. ‘Which means I’m available.’
‘Not for long, I’m very sure.’ Irish lays on a little charm as he eases a notebook out of his jacket. ‘So tell me again what you saw on the night Amir died.’
‘I was going away Saturday morning
. Had the day off and was headin’ to Atlantic City for a birthday party. I saw a man come out of Amir’s around ten-thirty p.m. and shut the door behind him.’
‘Why did that catch your eye?’
‘Coz he pushed on the handle to check it was locked properly. Like you’d do if you own the place.’
Irish writes before he asks the next question. ‘And how did you say he looked?’
‘Handsome,’ she says. ‘Muscular. Tender side of thirty.’ Her face lights up while she pictures him. ‘Tall and clean-shaven, very dark hair. Looked real nice.’
‘Did you notice what he was wearing?’
She thinks for a minute. ‘Blues. A blue jacket and jeans. Not a jean jacket, something smarter.’
Irish takes a swallow of his beer. The description fits the stiff dug up in the woods. ‘What’d he do then?’
‘Crossed the road, got into a big brown car and pulled away.’
Suzie taps her on the arm. ‘Tell him ’bout the noise.’
She obliges. ‘There wasn’t any.’
‘Probably an ’lectric vehicle,’ adds Suzie, keen to prove she’s worth her free drinks. ‘One of those high-breeds.’
‘You mean hybrids,’ says Irish. He turns back to Sarah. ‘You see the make, or recognize the type?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not good with cars. Not like I am with men. It was a big, boxy thing.’
‘Probably an SUV,’ suggests Suzie authoritatively. ‘Sports Utility Vehicle.’
‘Thanks,’ says Irish. ‘I know what SUV means.’
‘I watched it go,’ adds Sarah. ‘A few seconds later a car started and drove after it. Took me clean by surprise because it hadn’t any lights on. It was silver. Like a limousine but not as big.’
Irish downs his whisky shot. ‘Like a pimp’s car?’
Sarah pulls a sour face. ‘No. Classier. It had one of those glass roofs. I could see street lights reflecting on it when it drove off.’
‘Two or four doors?’
She has to think. ‘Four.’ Something occurs to her. ‘Oh, and I might be wrong on this, but the licence plate was weird.’
‘How so? You mean out-of-state plates?’
She looks embarrassed. ‘It sounds stupid now. Forget I spoke. I’m really not sure I’m right and don’t want to say the wrong thing.’
‘Say it,’ urges Irish.
‘I don’t think it was a DC plate. I’m not even sure it was American.’
He waves the barman over and makes a final note. An out-of-state plate spells only one thing.
Trouble.
The kind that can be near-on impossible to investigate.
22
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
A swarm of helicopters cover the sprawling green grounds. Chauffeured cars crunch the long gravelled drive. Armed guards shadow eleven men and women into the stately home and usher them through cool, marbled corridors to a door marked Wine Cellar.
Two former SAS men flank the big black slab of oak. They check credentials before allowing anyone to descend the stairs. Once below ground the visitors use fingerprint- and retina-identification systems to enter a huge windowless and bombproof room.
At the centre of the secure space is an ancient, circular table. It is marked with heraldic crests and Christian symbols. The circle itself is more than just a design that ensures no one has prominence – it is a Eucharistic symbol: a representation of the holy host.
The delegates of the Secret and Sacred Order of Arthurians take their places.
They are all highly successful executives, CEOs and owners of philanthropic businesses that also fund the SSOA. The organization is dedicated to peace, freedom and an endless fight against terrorism and evil.
Like Britain, the country where it is headquartered, the SSOA is governed by two distinct authorities, one chosen and one hereditary. Today’s meeting is of the Inner Circle – an operational body made up of chosen delegates. They have been picked, not only because of their immense wealth and power, but also because they are so passionate about the central aims of the SSOA that they are willing to die – or kill – for them.
While the Inner Circle formulates and implements policy, it can’t do so without reference to a much larger and even older authority.
The Blood Line.
The BL is comprised of members who are direct descendants of the Knights of the Round Table.
Beneath these two bodies, is a hidden army of modern-day knights. A secret force, spread internationally. Recruited almost exclusively from national military and intelligence bodies. Its uniform is the anonymity of every day clothes and its camouflage that of suburbia and average life.
Today’s agenda, like the briefing paper, is written in Arthurian Code. The rotational cipher was created centuries ago on two wooden wheels marked with letters and numbers. The outer contained numbers and the inner letters. The base code would always be A and 1. But every day someone would spin the wheels and then record the random number that matched A. So if A aligned with 6, then the day’s code would be known as Plus Six. Modern Arthurians have special digital token codes that need alphanumeric logins to retrieve the pass codes of any documents sent to them.
Circle secretary Lance Beaucoup, reads the minutes of the last meeting. He is mid-thirties, tall, dark-haired with the broad shoulders of a swimmer and the waist of a gymnast. His voice has a Gallic lilt.
‘Does anyone wish to comment?’ asks Owain.
The room is silent.
‘Then take them as passed, Lance.’
There’s an awkward silence. One filled with expectancy and fear.
The Frenchman continues, ‘We come to the issue of our trusted colleague. Our absent friend.’
All eyes fall on the empty twelfth seat at the table.
‘It is now clear,’ says Owain, ‘that Angelo Marchetti has broken from our order. He has a secret life beyond his secret life. One of gambling, cocaine and crime. Angelo has been siphoning off money. His own accounts have been forged and he is personally bankrupt.’
Mutterings break out.
‘Please – I haven’t finished.’ He waits until silence has been restored. ‘He has stolen several artefacts from the Order and may have fled the country. From what we have been able to discover, he used local crooks to sell a number of burial crosses that he himself had looted. A religious dealer of dubious repute in America was approached and he acquired one cross. He was killed two days ago by Marchetti’s men. We aren’t sure why.
‘We now have a complication,’ continues Owain. ‘I’ve harboured suspicions about Angelo for a while so had him followed the last few weeks.’ He nods across the table to a young Englishman. ‘George tailed his men as they drove away from the dealer’s in Maryland. He’ll tell you the rest.’
George Dalton, a slightly built man with a trimmed dark beard and pale blue eyes, gives his account of what happened. ‘After the killing, two men left the scene. They stopped on the outskirts of Kensington and went into a copse. Only one of them came out. He drove south and pulled in at an all-night diner about a third of a mile east of Dupont Circle. I watched him eat at a booth by the window. When he returned to the car I tackled him. Unfortunately, he was more skilled an adversary than I expected and had a knife.’ George raises his arm to show his bandaged hand and wrist. ‘I’m afraid it was a very close-quarters encounter and he was killed. I recovered a Knight’s Cross from the glove compartment of his car.’
Owain interrupts. ‘There are still two crucifixes missing and possibly other artefacts that we don’t yet know about. We presume Angelo has now lost faith in his minions and is personally trying to sell the crosses. I think we can all guess to whom he will eventually turn and what the consequences of that could be.’
Fresh mutterings break out and Lance takes this as his cue. ‘As of this moment, Angelo Marchetti is expelled from our Order and we are issuing an alert for his capture and permanent exile. You should put whatever bounty you wish on his head and treat this as a ma
tter of utmost urgency.’
Owain sees their sadness. The man with a death warrant on his head had been a friend and comrade to them for many years and his betrayal is hard to believe. ‘Be in no doubt – Angelo poses the biggest threat to our existence for centuries. Do not hesitate to act resolutely in this matter. We have no room for forgiveness, emotion or error. Strike swiftly; our chance may come but once.’
23
INDIANA AVENUE, WASHINGTON DC
Police HQ is an imposing slab of sandstone and glass set among a collection of other similarly striking buildings that belong to the fire and justice departments, the district court and Department of Labor.
Up on the command corridor, the name etched on a door halfway down says CPT. ZACH FULO. Irish raps on it.
‘C’m’in!’ The words are spat out by a voice of grit and glue.
The cop opens the door and hesitantly steps inside.
A lean black man looks up from a desk layered in paperwork. ‘Take a seat, Lieutenant; you’re late.’
‘Traffic was bad out of Maryland. Sorry for the delay.’
‘Traffic’s bad everywhere. A guy your age should have learned that by now.’ His dark eyes tip to a document in his manicured hands. ‘HRU – that’s Historic Religious and Unsolved, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What the hell they doing asking about one of our cases?’ He holds up the paper.
Irish stares at the FBI badge and realizes one of the top brass there must have written to him. ‘I asked them, sir. Given this has since kicked up into a double homicide I thought it it might be wise.’
‘No, Lieutenant. Wise would be asking me first. Really wise would have been solving the case already.’ He screws up the paper and throws the ball at him. ‘You’re an idiot, Fitzgerald. Just in case you’re in any doubt, idiots are at the opposite end of the spectrum to the wise.’