The Camelot Code

by Sam Christer

  Stevens takes both IDs and examines them carefully before returning them. ‘And you’re here, why?’

  ‘We’re running a homicide investigation and need your help.’ Irish gives a friendly shrug. ‘Hell, I know there are all those procedural channels and policies, but I could sure do with cutting through the red tape and getting a jump on our killer. Can I ask you something?’

  The young attaché says nothing.

  ‘Take a look at these for me.’ Irish opens a brown envelope and shows blow-up photos the lab rushed for him late last night. ‘This Lincoln is registered to the British Embassy; we checked the plates.’ He hands a print to Stevens. ‘We need to know who was driving it last Friday night and where it is now?’

  ‘Do you have a record book of that kind of thing?’ asks Mitzi. ‘A driver we can talk to?’

  Stevens hands the photograph back to Irish. ‘I’m sorry; you’re going to have to go through those dreadful channels. Probably best to have your Chief of Police contact the State Department and let them deal with it appropriately.’ He taps the face of his wristwatch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to.’

  Mitzi presses. ‘If you don’t have time, maybe your boss does?’

  ‘That’s not possible.’ He looks amused. ‘If you were better informed you would know that Sir Owain Gwyn’s tenure is up. He returned to Britain yesterday along with his staff.’ He pre-empts her next question. ‘I have stayed on merely to help the new ambassador settle in. And he won’t be here today, or the rest of this week for that matter.’

  She steps into the attaché’s personal space. ‘Do I look like a barn wall?’

  The consular agent looks confused. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I just wondered – what with all that whitewash you just slopped over me.’

  His tone alters. ‘I’m officially asking you to leave. If you don’t, I will call security and have you forcibly removed.’

  ‘We’re going.’ Mitzi pats him playfully on the cheek as she walks past. ‘Love your accent, honey. God save the freakin’ queen.’

  34

  NEW YORK

  For the past three years, Halem Hussain has been a trusted member of Nabil Tabrizi’s terror cell. Not for one moment has anyone within the group suspected he might be Antun Bhatti, a devoted member of the SSOA, a secret organization known to only a few people in the world.

  But today, things are different.

  Given the raid by the Counter-Terrorist Unit, he knows Nabil must consider him, and everyone else left alive, as the possible source of a leak to the authorities.

  He sits in a circle of hard chairs, in the damp basement of a safe house off Westchester Avenue, just a nervous spit from where the Cross Bronx Expressway hits Parkchester Metro and the Hugh J. Grant Circle. He’s a stranger to the place. Brought here by Nabil, they made five different changes of transport and went to extraordinary lengths to make sure they weren’t tailed.

  He and Malek the bomber have been searched and electronically ‘brushed’ for bugs by a man Nabil simply introduced as Aasif.

  The young cell commander looks strained and worried. He leans on his knees as he speaks. ‘One of our colleagues is dead. Others have been captured by the Americans. Yet, the two of you, Malek and Halem, escaped unhurt. No bullet wounds. No scratches. No arrests. Tell me why did Allah look so favourably upon you?’

  The small grey-haired bomb-maker, answers first. ‘When the Americans blew open the door I was in the toilet. This saved me from the blast and the gunfire. I praise Allah and I pray for those who were not as lucky as me. My work will bring glory to the rest of our team, I swear it.’

  Nabil studies the man by his side. ‘And you, Halem?’

  Antun doesn’t rush his answer. He hangs his head in shame.

  ‘Brother! I am waiting for your explanation.’

  Finally, he looks up. His eyes are moist. ‘I was frightened.’ He lets the admission sink in. ‘I was thrown to the floor when the Americans fired their explosives and I stayed there.’ He drops his head again, before continuing. ‘I was too scared to move and hoped they didn’t kill me. Then part of the roof collapsed and I took the chance to run rather than fight.’ He raises his eyes. ‘Then I called and told you what had happened.’

  Nabil remembers his horror at learning of the raid. Halem had indeed been the first to alert him and, had he not, maybe he would have been arrested or killed by the Americans. ‘There is a traitor among us. Of that, I am sure. It may be one of you, or perhaps even Abbas or Samir. For the moment, I cannot be certain. But I will be.’ He puts a hand on the man at his side. ‘Aasif, show them how we will find out.’

  The enforcer dips his hands into a black garbage bag that the imam has given him and lifts out a thick fold of light brown canvas. As he unrolls it, a tangle of coloured wires and deep pockets packed with explosives and shrapnel become visible.

  ‘Tonight,’ says Nabil, ‘at the height of rush hour, one of our sisters will walk into Grand Central Station and turn a dull New York day into a truly historic one.’

  35

  GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND

  The daily briefing paper that Lance places in Owain’s hands is not dissimilar to one that will shortly be passed to the President of the United States.

  But this missive hasn’t been compiled by US or even British intelligence agencies. It’s come from the Arthurians’ Watch Team, a hand-picked group of security experts who gather information on the biggest threats to world security.

  Today’s dossier runs from A-U. From Afghanistan and Algeria to Uzbekistan. Down the alphabet of terrorism, Owain learns of changes in strength, new affiliations and successful and failed strikes. He picks up early intelligence on Cambodia’s Khmer Rouge, the Zviadists in Georgia, the Japanese Aum Supreme Truth movement, Hamas, and the Harakat ul-Ansar in Pakistan. He reads and absorbs it all, then settles on the separate paper that is always prepared for him.

  The one marked MARDRID.

  The title is the name of a company in the Spanish capital that is a front for an arms supplier, delivering tanks to Syria, warplanes to Iran, missiles to North Korea without compunction. Its CEO is Josep Mardrid, entrepreneur and evil personified.

  Owain reads each line carefully, knowing that somewhere in the world Mardrid is most probably perusing a detailed report about him and his various activities. If Myrddin’s prophecies are right, they will meet again soon. Just as their ancestors did. Then there will be blood. Such a torrent of blood that it will sweep away some of the finest lives the world has ever known.

  36

  BRITISH EMBASSY, WASHINGTON DC

  ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ Irish jabs a thumb towards the front gate as he fishes for the last of the clean tissues in his pocket. ‘The car and the exit are over there.’

  ‘I’ve never had a good sense of direction.’ Mitzi saunters down the service road that snakes around the back of the embassy.

  He sneezes then asks her, ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Garage will be down here. I figure we have less than five minutes before the Head of Ambassadorial Whitewash checks with security that we’ve gone.’

  Irish struggles to keep up. ‘Hey, we have no warrant and my captain doesn’t even know that we’re here. He’ll kick my ass if you cause any problems.’

  ‘Thought you said your ass was hard and kick-resistant?’

  ‘I lied. I have a soft pussy of an ass, a real —’

  ‘Enough, or I’ll kick it myself.’

  They follow the road as it winds through the cover of giant trees. In the clearing is a crop of old outbuildings and a spread of blacktop where embassy cars are parked.

  Near the vehicles are a gas pump, oil drums, and a long single-storey garage with rolled up doors. Inside is a dark-brown Range Rover that looks several years old and alongside it, a black Jaguar, a supercharged XJL.

  Mitzi’s gaze skips over the roofs and hoods. Right at the back she sees a silver Lincoln MKZ, with a panoramic roof.r />
  ‘Well looky look!’ She runs her fingers down the wing. ‘Don’t this seem familiar?’

  ‘This year’s model.’ Irish floats envious eyes over the badging and plump leather interior. ‘Three-point-seven-litre V6 engine, with rich leather and wood trim. We’re talking forty, maybe forty-five thousand dollars.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get change out of fifty.’ The comment comes from a ginger-haired man in blue overalls. He wipes his fingers on a rag even dirtier than his hands. ‘Can I help you with somethin’?’

  ‘Lieutenant Fitzgerald, DC Police.’ He flips his badge. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Chas Dawkins. I’m the embassy’s chief mechanic – what’s wrong?’

  ‘You got records, Chas? Can you tell me where these cars might have been and who’s been driving them – like you, for example?’ Irish raises an accusatory eyebrow.

  ‘Me an’ the rest of the boys don’t do nothing but test drives and most of that’s on private roads.’ He gestures to the garage. ‘If the cars are taken out they have to be signed for. I’ve got logs.’

  They walk into a darkness that smells of oil, petrol and spirit-based cleaners. Mitzi looks back for the security guards who will inevitably come.

  Chas rifles through the drawers of a tatty wooden desk that has an ancient computer sat on top, along with a collection of dirty mugs that should have been washed yesterday. He produces an A3-sized hardback blue book and opens it. ‘What day and car you interested in?’

  ‘Friday last.’ Irish feels his heart jump. ‘Who had the Lincoln that night, say from eight onwards?’

  The mechanic runs a finger down the columns until he finds a name and signature. ‘Mr Dalton.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Mitzi watches a black Ford Expedition roll to a halt outside the garage.

  ‘George Dalton. He’s a consul.’

  She sees guards slide from their vehicle, hitch up their pants, belts heavy with guns. ‘How long did he have the car?’

  Chas has his head in the book. ‘Dropped it at the airport on Sunday morning. We pick —’

  ‘Don’t say anything else, Mr Dawkins.’ The order comes from a guard in his mid-fifties. ‘These people got no right to be here asking you questions.’

  Mitzi winks at him. ‘You did good, Chas. Whatever the Stasi here say, you’ve done the right thing.’

  37

  NEW YORK

  ‘The thing is’ – Nabil Tabrizi looks across at Halem and Malek as he speaks – ‘none of us is going to leave this room. Not until long after the suicide vest has been collected and Grand Central Station is bathed in the blood of the infidels.’ He studies their eyes for a sign of worry, a flash of recognition that one of them will be unable to contact his masters and prevent the attack.

  Malek is the first to break a tense silence. ‘May I see the vest?’

  The cell leader regards him with suspicion. ‘Why?’

  ‘To check it will work. These garments are prone to malfunction.’

  Aasif holds it up. ‘Or is it because you want to sabotage it?’ Perhaps loosen a connection or two?’

  The bomb-maker stays calm. ‘I am a professional and I am acting professionally.’ He turns his head towards the cell commander. ‘Do you respect my opinion and my skills, or not?’

  ‘Give it to him,’ says Nabil curtly.

  Aasif carefully passes it over.

  The commander slips a Glock from his belt and inspects the magazine. It’s a check done more out of boredom than anything else. ‘You are very quiet, Halem. What is on your mind?’ The rack of bullets makes a ratcheting click as it’s shoved back into the gun.

  Antun feels Nabil’s eyes boring into him. ‘I was wondering if any thought had been given to the scanners at the station and how to get past them? Or is the plan just to explode the device outside?’

  ‘Much thought has gone into this plan,’ says Nabil. ‘The explosive is TATP and it will pass the scanners. Won’t it, Malek?’

  ‘It will. As you say, the maker has used triacetone triperoxide. It’s a crude but sensitive charge made up mainly of acetone, hydrogen peroxide and a strong acid like hydrochloric or sulphuric acid.’ He turns one of the vest pockets around to show the packed chemicals. ‘Because most security scanners are really only nitrogen detectors, they won’t pick this up. It is what we bomb-makers call “transparent”.’

  Antun, the man they all know as Halem, wipes sweat from his brow. His thoughts are on the station. It’s not just the busiest stop in the New York City Subway system; it’s one of the most hectic places on earth. GCS has more than a hundred tracks and covers almost fifty acres of land. On a quiet day three-quarters of a million people pass through it. A bomb will cause unbelievable loss of life.

  He has to stop the attack.

  Even if that means getting killed in the process.

  38

  WASHINGTON DC

  Mitzi lowers the window of the Taurus as they head out to Sophie Hudson’s apartment in North Bethesda. ‘You sure you left the bodies at the morgue, and they ain’t buried somewhere beneath your car trash?’

  ‘Very funny.’ Irish flips down the lid on the glove box. ‘There’s cologne in there; squirt it around and shut up.’

  ‘What an offer.’ Mitzi picks out a dubious green bottle of a scent she’s never heard of and sprays it. ‘Oh my God! I think I prefer the hidden corpse.’ She puts the bottle back.

  ‘Paid ten dollars for that.’

  ‘You should have arrested them for robbery.’

  He smiles. For someone like Mitzi Fallon, he could maybe buy sixty-dollar cologne and get his shit together. Shame she’s just blowing through his life. Shame he has a life that just gets blown through. ‘I think Sophie Hudson’s holding back on me. I tell you that already?’

  ‘You did. You told me at the airport.’

  He jabs a finger against his temple. ‘Got to the age when I can’t remember half of what I’ve said. Better to say it twice than not at all.’

  ‘Anything you can put your finger on?’

  ‘No. That’s the problem. It’s just a hunch.’ He drives lazily. Hands flopped together on the top of the wheel. ‘I was thinking, maybe you should see her on your own. Could be that woman-to-woman you’ll get something I wouldn’t.’

  Mitzi gives him the once-over. He’s scruffy as hell and stinks of booze but beneath all that waste there’s a bright cop trying to come up for air. ‘I’ll give it a shot.’

  Ten minutes later, Irish pulls over and kills the engine. ‘It’s that brownstone. Eighth floor, apartment 802.’ He slides his seat back and reclines it. ‘I’m gonna grab a little rest. See if I can sleep off this flu.’

  She opens the passenger side and steps out to the sidewalk. ‘Women get flu, they simply struggle on; men get it, they have to sleep it off. Healthiest thing you could do is clean up this dumpster.’ She slams the door and looks around.

  The street is clean and quiet. A few trees have grown mature around the old brownstone building, a patch of grass has got a path worn across the corner and there are a couple of benches where no doubt old folks sit during the day and kids congregate at night.

  She takes the stairs, not the elevator and uses the time to run the details of the case through her head.

  Sophie opens her apartment door on the first knock, but keeps it chained.

  Mitzi shows her FBI badge. ‘I’m working your boss’s murder. Need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I already talked to Lieutenant Fitzgerald.’

  ‘I know. Now you need to talk to me.’ She puts a finger on the chain. ‘Take it off, please?’

  Sophie’s eyes show resignation. The door closes and re-opens without the chain.

  ‘Thanks.’ As she walks in Mitzi asks, ‘How you feeling? I’m told you’re sick.’

  ‘Getting better.’ Sophie is in her old university hoodie with blue jeans, pink socks and no shoes. She motions reluctantly to the sofa. ‘You want a drink or something?’

  ‘No I’m good.�
� Mitzi sits and flips out a notebook. ‘Let’s do this quick.’

  ‘Sure.’ She settles opposite her. ‘Like I said, I went through it all with Lieutenant Fitzgerald. I’ve told him everything I know.’

  ‘I suspect not.’ She studies the landscape of the girl’s face, the tension in her cheeks, and the tightness around her mouth. ‘You ever done word-association tests?’

  She frowns. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, it goes like this: I say something and you answer with the first thing that comes into your head. From your answer, I’ll know whether you’re a liar or just a sick kid whose door I shouldn’t have knocked on.’ Mitzi clicks the top on her pen. ‘Here we go – word one: murder…⁠’

  The store assistant doesn’t answer.

  Mitzi repeats herself. ‘Murder, Sophie. Murder…⁠’

  ‘Mr Goldman?’

  ‘Good.’

  Mitzi lets her hang. She leans forward, challengingly. ‘Hiding.’

  Sophie’s pupils dilate. Her skin glows pink. ‘This is stupid. I’m not —’

  ‘Don’t!’ Mitzi holds up a traffic cop palm. ‘You don’t want to know what I’ve done to people who lie to my face.’

  The silence returns.

  Mitzi puts the pen and paper down. ‘Okay, game over. You got from sick kid to lying little bitch in two questions. Not a record, but still impressive.’ She takes her shield out and places it next to her. ‘The FBI didn’t send me here to play games, honey – they want me to charge someone with your boss’s murder. So, what happens now is I phone for a warrant, we toss this place and then charge you with suspicion —’

  ‘All right.’ Sophie rubs a hand nervously across her mouth and gets shakily to her feet. ‘I need to bring something from the bedroom.’