“Professor Mualama, you go through Burton’s manuscript again and see if we missed anything regarding the location of the Master Guardian. Professor Che Lu, I think you need to get with Larry Kincaid and check all the locations that Nabinger recorded. Perhaps one of those is the second mothership. I’m going to try to send a message to Kelly to see if she can tap into the Easter Island guardian and give us a better idea where those objects are. Any questions?”
“And me?” Duncan asked.
“We need to find out what happened to you,” Turcotte said. “How the Grail affected you.”
Turcotte looked around the room. They were the experts, the ones who knew the most about the Airlia and their technology, yet he felt grave misgivings about their loyalties: Yakov, the Russian, who had shot Duncan; Che Lu, the Chinese, who had delved into Qian-Ling at such an opportune time; Mualama, the African, who had lied to them about being a Watcher and only told them things when it seemed to be convenient to some agenda of his own. And most of all Lisa Duncan, the woman he had thought he loved — what had happened to her?
Quinn had a headset on and he pulled the small mouthpiece away from his lips. “A doctor is coming down on the elevator. We need to get her looked at.” He was staring at Turcotte. Surprisingly, the tiny officer got up and went to the head of the table, where he extended his hand to Duncan, indicating she should get up.
As Turcotte started to protest, Quinn put his other hand in the Green Beret’s chest. “A doctor can tell us more right now than anyone else. We need to get her looked at.”
Turcotte was so surprised by Quinn’s action that he allowed him to escort Duncan out the door, where a man in a white coat waited. Quinn returned, shutting the door behind him.
“What the hell—” Turcotte began, but Quinn picked up the folder that he’d been given and tossed it in front of Turcotte.
“I don’t know who that woman is,” Quinn said, “but there is no Lisa Duncan. I had the Agency do a check on her. Everything in her background is a lie.”
CHAPTER 3: THE PAST
Surrounded by water, the Tor jutted five hundred feet above the countryside, crowned by a ruined stone abbey. It was a sacred place, one where few dared travel, yet on this dreary morning, a small boat, oars pulled by a single man dressed in a long black robe fringed with silver, slowly made its way across the placid water. It was a place of legend, rumored by many to be the legendary site of Avalon, home to strange folk with even stranger powers. Those who lived nearby dared not set foot on the island.
The bottom of the boat grated onto a pebbled beach. The man stowed the oars, tied the boat off to a stunted tree, then made his way up the track that wound its way up the hill. He walked as if carrying a great burden, stoop-shouldered and with stiff legs, but all he had in his hands was a long staff of polished wood that he leaned on to aid his climb. His face was hidden in the shadow of an overhanging hood, but a white beard poked out at the bottom.
When he reached the top, he paused, taking in the shattered stone of the abbey. Then he looked all about, at the country that surrounded the lake. Nothing moved under an overcast sky. It was as if the land had been swept clear of man and beast. A gust of cold wind caused the man to pull his robe tighter around his body. Ever since the great battle of Camlann — the showdown between Arthur and Mordred — the land had appeared bleak and cold.
He walked to the abbey and through a doorway. The interior was open to the sky, the floor littered with stone blocks from the collapsed roof. With a gnarled hand the man reached into the neck of his robe and retrieved a medallion. On the surface of the metal was the image of an eye. He placed it against the front of the small altar where there was an indentation of similar shape. He held the medallion there for several moments, then removed it, sliding it back inside his robe.
He rubbed his hands together as he waited. He started as a door swung open in the wall of the abbey. A figure stepped into the abbey, cloaked in brown. He too wore a hood, which he pulled back, revealing a lined face and silver hair. His eyes widened as he recognized the man by the altar.
“Myrddin!”
The old man wearily smiled. “I have not been called that in a long time, Brynn. At the court of Arthur the King they called me Merlin.” “So I have heard,” Brynn said.
Merlin looked about. “They would have brought Arthur here.”
“He died right there.” Brynn pointed toward the nearest stone wall of the abbey. “And Excalibur?”
“No sorrow?” Brynn folded his arms across his chest. “No sign of grief for the death of your king?”
“I knew he was dead,” Merlin said. “I have grieved in private.” “I doubt it.”
Merlin straightened, drawing himself up, and despite his worn condition, Brynn took a step backward.
“I did what I did for the land, for the people.” “It did not work,” Brynn noted.
“It was better than hiding in a cave with old papers,” Merlin snapped.
“Was it?” Brynn didn’t wait for an answer. “The land is worse off than it was. Many have died. The Grail was almost lost. The sword too.”
“I know about the Grail. One of your fellow Watchers has it.”
“It is good that you don’t consider yourself one of us any longer,” Brynn said. “You betrayed our order.”
“I went beyond our order as must be done at times,” Merlin said. “You will return the Grail to Egypt?”
“That I cannot tell you.”
Merlin shook his head. “Returning to the status quo. That would be fine, except what is the status quo?”
Brynn frowned. “What do you mean?”
Merlin stamped his foot on the Tor impatiently. “Our order has watched since the time of Atlantis. We once worshipped the ‘gods.’ And when they fought among themselves, many of our people died and Atlantis was destroyed, the survivors scattered.
“I talked with Arthur many times — he was a Shadow of one of these creatures. He knew much of the great truth.”
“‘The great truth’?”
“What do we know?” Merlin asked Brynn. “Do we know where the ‘gods’ came from? Why they are here?”
The look on Brynn’s face indicated he didn’t even understand the questions, never mind wonder about the answers.
Merlin sighed and dropped that line of thought. “Excalibur is more than just a sword. It does others things. And the war will come again. And both sides will want it. And men like me”—Merlin nodded, acknowledging his role in recent events—“will try to use Excalibur also as a symbol. But it is more than a symbol. It has a purpose, a very critical purpose. It is a critical piece, one of several, in a very ancient puzzle.”
Brynn waited, listening.
“I am here to make amends,” Merlin said. “And how will you do that?”
“Excalibur must be hidden better than this place.”
“I do not—” Brynn began, but Merlin slammed the butt of his staff onto the stone floor.
“Listen to me, Brynn. The sword must be hidden. Since it was brought out, those whom you watch now know where it is. We — I—awakened those better left sleeping and they sent forth their Shadows to do war to try to gain the sword and the Grail. Both were hidden for many generations but now this place is no longer safe. You know that or else you would not have sent away the Grail.”