‘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
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
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
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 symboclass="underline" 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.