Ryan gave a heavy sigh. “Please Lord, let that be a joke.”
“It was a joke,” Kim said. “I think.”
“Of course it was a joke,” Hawke said with a sideways glance at Kim. “Go on, mate.”
“The Welsh Triads are a collection of medieval manuscripts which are centred on everything being brought together in groups of three — a very holy number in ancient Celtic tradition.”
“Go on.”
“Famous texts include the White Book of Rhydderch and the Red Book of Hergest, but there are others. They were stored all over Wales for hundreds of years but today most of them are in the National Library in Cardiff. The manuscripts of the Welsh Triads are almost certainly just the tip of the iceberg, and most scholars agree that there are probably countless missing texts out there.”
“Why are you telling me this, Ryan? Do you want ECHO to pay for you to go on holiday to Wales?”
“Like I said earlier when you were chilling out in the Oval Office, I’m telling you because one of them has just turned up and I think it could be critical to our mission.”
Hawke glanced at Kim and smiled. “Tell me more.”
“So this manuscript could be the parent text to both the White Book and Red Book and it’s just surfaced in Boston, Massachusetts courtesy of a private collector dying in his sleep and leaving it to the State in his will. It’s now in the possession of the Boston Metropolitan Museum, and they have pictures of it on their website. They’re calling it the Gold Book or the Book of Gold. It’s very exciting.”
“Sounds like it,” Hawke said with an eye roll.
“But that’s not even the best bit.”
“Spit it out, Ryan,” Kim said.
“You remember the strange symbols all over the idol we found in Mexico?”
“Sure.”
“Well, they’re all over this manuscript as well.”
Hawke and Kim shared a glance. The symbols they had found in Mexico were very similar to those they had seen on the Valhalla idol, and they had been struggling to understand their connection ever since. How ancient relics from places as far away from one another as Lapland and Mexico could share the same symbols had mystified the entire team, including Ryan and Alex.
“Are you absolutely sure about this, mate?” he asked.
“It’s me, Joe; of course I’m absolutely sure. The problem is, the picture on the museum’s website is only giving me a partial image of the symbols and by the looks of the way they taper off the edge of the page I’m guessing there are more that are totally out of sight. That’s why I have to get my hands on the actual manuscript. I could fly to Boston or you could pick it up on your way back to London.”
London. Hawke’s hometown. A place he loved to visit. A place he loved to avoid. Today he was due to fly back and meet Lea. They were supposed to talk to the doctors about Sir Richard Eden, and he guessed that meant his condition was slipping.
“Where are you, Ryan? The latest picture on your Facebook page is of you in Paris.”
A long pause. Hawke knew Ryan was still trying to come to terms with his loss and presumed he’d been on a colossal bender in the City of Light.
“I’m in London now, at the hospital.”
“Any change?”
“None.”
Kim gave Hawke a look of consolation.
Hawke changed the subject. “How much are we paying for it?”
“That’s up to you now, Joe.”
“For now,” Hawke corrected him. “What does Lea say?”
“She says just buy it. She’s drifting a bit. She needs you — we all do. You’re the acting head of ECHO as far as the rest of us are concerned. This is important, Joe. We all know in our blood that the idols are central to all this, and now a thousand year-old Welsh manuscript turns up with almost identical symbols on it to the Mexican and Valhalla idols. I have to get a closer look inside it if I’m going to see all of its secrets.”
Hawke sighed. “In that case, we’d better get our arses up to Boston.”
CHAPTER FOUR
After stopping in Manhattan for coffee and switching seats, Kim Taylor was at the wheel as they entered Boston. This meant a measured and slow journey over the bridge and into North End before finally driving into the Seaport District.
“Take note, Limey,” she said with a feigned scowl. “This is where we kicked your asses.”
“Why, oh why, would you abuse helpless donkeys?”
“Not funny, but seriously — this is where we beat you once and for good.”
“Not really.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“The way I see it,” he said trying to suppress a grin, “you weren’t technically independent until 1776, so those guys throwing tea into the harbor in 1774…”
“16 December 1773.”
“Exactly — they were technically British.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Afraid so — technically we were beaten by ourselves, so in a weird sort of way the British won the War of Independence and then decided to become American afterwards.”
Kim shifted a little in her seat and cleared her throat to speak as she slapped his shoulder. “You know, talk like that might technically be treason.”
Hawke laughed for the first time since they had started their journey.
As they finally reached the Boston Metropolitan Museum the sky had darkened and was threatening a heavy downpour. Not unusual for Boston at this time of year, and Kim had dressed for it back in DC. Now, she snuggled down into her scarf as they crossed the road and walked up the steps to the main entrance.
The museum was large and popular, but it was midweek and the place was relatively quiet. They walked to the front desk where a woman with short blonde hair met them with a smile and a brief introduction. “I’m Melissa Miller,” she began. “I’m the Curator of the Celtic Studies section. I gather you’re interested in seeing the new medieval Welsh manuscript?”
“That’s right,” Kim said.
Melissa stopped for a moment and cocked her head a little, staring at Kim. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You look sort of familiar,” the woman said.
Kim sighed inwardly. As part of his personal security detail, she had been photographed with the President on countless occasions, and just a few hours ago she had been standing behind him when he gave a short press conference on the peace talks with Korea that he was trying to get off the ground. The last thing on Earth that she wanted to do was tell this woman she had probably seen her last at the inauguration of the US President — when she had stood a few feet behind him and seven million people were tuned into every second of it on their TVs and iPads.
“She was a child actress,” Hawke said in a flash.
“Ah!” A look or recognition appeared on the curator’s face. “That must be it.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Kim said quietly.
“She mostly did toilet roll commercials,” he said.
“Oh…”
Kim spoke through gritted teeth. “I said thanks, Joe.”
“And who could forget that one about the drain cleaner?”
Kim elbowed him hard in the ribs and Hawke stifled a grunt of pain, but Melissa Miller had already turned and was on her way toward a long corridor.
“If you’ll just follow me,” she said over her shoulder, “the item you wish to see is right along here.”
“I thought it was on display?” Kim said.
“No, not yet. We’re very grateful to the previous owner’s estate for making it available to us — but at a price.” She said this last word with a weary sigh.
“And who was the previous owner?” Hawke said.
“I’m not at liberty to divulge information about our donors or their estates.”