‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?’
For starters, a hole in his upper right arm and a shallow furrow along his outer skull. Both courtesy of an unknown assassin who hit the target but missed the mark.
Utterly demoralized by what had happened in the Languedoc, Cædmon had no idea who had ambushed him on that dark stretch of rocky terrain. He presumed it was someone in the employ of the Seven Research Foundation. Without question, La belle dame sans merci was merrily laughing at his plight. He had actually found the Grail. But, like Parzival after his first visit to the Grail Castle, he’d been tossed on his arse, the castle having vanished into thin air.
Cædmon glanced at the wadded bandage under his shirtsleeve, relieved to see that there was no blood seepage. The sutures were holding. Forced to operate in primitive conditions, the shepherd had removed the bullet from his triceps brachii with a pair of needle-nosed pliers, the man actually annoyed that Cædmon ordered him to first sterilize the pliers in boiling water. As well as the needle used to suture his flesh together. For an old man with gnarled, arthritic hands, Pascal sewed a surprisingly neat stitch.
He was lucky to be alive. The first bullet had grazed his skull, leaving a superficial gully above his left ear. The second bullet had lodged in his arm muscle, missing the arteries and veins that siphoned blood to and from his heart. A blessing, Pascal claimed. More jaded, Cædmon knew better. After he’d tended to his wounds, the shepherd gave Cædmon the only painkiller he had – a half-full bottle of Pastis. Although he loathed aniseed, Cædmon gratefully accepted the gift. Polished it off, in fact, during the three-hour train ride to Paris.
A gruelling journey, made worse by the vile tasting liquor, he slept fitfully on the train. Twice he awoke, panic-stricken, frantically patting the seat, searching for his rucksack, worried that someone had pinched the Grail while he slept. And then he remembered that an assassin had stolen the Grail. Both times, in a Pastis-induced haze, Cædmon wondered if he’d actually found the blasted relic. Or had it all been a figment of his wild imagination?
On seeing the bookshop sign – emblazoned with the naive Fool about to embark on his grand adventure – Cædmon wearily sighed. Head throbbing, he gingerly touched the bandage wrapped around his skull. It felt like an iron band. One that tightened with each footfall.
Just a few more steps.
He pulled a key ring from his jacket pocket. A storm-damaged man-of-war about to sail into safe harbour.
Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door. The hinges noisily squealed. He grunted, hit with an incendiary burst of pain that radiated from his arm to his skull. As he stepped across the threshold, Cædmon was greeted by a miasma of dust motes lazily floating in the slanted light. He waited a few seconds, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dimly lit shop before he walked over to the wall-mounted key pad. His shuffling gait was that of a much older man.
Squinting, he peered at the digital display.
Shite!
The security alarm had been deactivated, two loose wires protruding from the device!
Hackles instantly raised, he spun on his heel. He then proceeded to scrutinize each dark shadow.
Everything seemed in order.
On high alert, he cautiously made his way to the closed door at the rear of the shop that led to his flat. Holding his breath, he reached for the doorknob. Uncertain what he would find on the other side, he flung the door wide open.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ he bellowed crossly.
‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ Finnegan McGuire retorted. ‘I’m catching some Zs.’ Stretched out full-length on the tufted leather sofa, the commando propped his head on a beefy arm.
The tension left Cædmon’s body in one fell swoop, replaced with a jaw-grinding pain. He walked over to the sofa.
‘Nice place you got here,’ McGuire quipped as he rose to his feet. ‘I was almost tempted to pull out the feather duster and plug in the vacuum cleaner.’
‘Sod you.’ With bells on.
Glancing down, Cædmon noticed a plastic shopping bag on top of the cluttered coffee table. Although the flat was an untidy wreck, books stacked on the floor, newspapers lying about, the bag was unfamiliar to him. Eyes narrowed, he examined its contents. A bottle of bleach. Toilet paper. A bag of sugar. A ball of string. Loose wine corks. And a green metal box of Twinings tea. All-in-all, a strange assortment of sundry items.
Damn the man. He’d made himself right at home.
Still sneering, McGuire tossed a key in his direction; Cædmon caught it in his left hand.
‘I returned your Vespa. It’s parked out back.’
Without missing a beat, Cædmon tossed the key right back at him. ‘Then rev up and fuck off.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until you give me the Grail.’
‘Small problem with that, old boy –’ grimacing, he lowered himself into his upholstered club chair – ‘I don’t have the blasted Grail.’
‘But you did find it, right?’
Wondering at the bastard’s interest, Cædmon nodded warily. ‘However, soon after I uncovered the Grail, an armed thug arrived on the scene. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, the Seven Research Foundation is now in possession of the ancient relic.’
‘Ah, shit!’ A look of abject desperation flashed across the commando’s unshaven face. ‘Uhlemann abducted Kate.’
‘Good God!’
Stunned, Cædmon slumped ingloriously in the chair.
Neither of them spoke, the only sound the incessant ticking of the wall clock.
‘Is she still alive?’ he finally asked, emotionally steeling himself for the reply.
‘Yeah, I think so. If they wanted her dead, they would’ve killed her at the cemetery.’ Then, with the fierce vigour of the Spartan three hundred, McGuire said, ‘I will find her!’
‘Any idea where the Seven might be holding her?’
‘Well, I know where they’re not holding her. Their headquarters at Grande Arche is deserted and no one is home at Uhlemann’s Paris apartment.’
Cædmon ran possible scenarios through his head. His sweet Rosa Mundi, in the monster’s clutch. What a bloody nightmare!
‘If we’re to find her, I need you to brief me in full detail. Leave nothing out. No stone unturned, understood?’
McGuire nodded his agreement. ‘I’ll hurl every rock I’ve got. But I’ll tell ya right now, you’re not gonna like what you’re about to hear.’
I already don’t like it.
How could it possibly get any worse?
71
Seven Research Laboratory
1945 hours
Quid pro quo. This for that.
The only reason Kate was still alive.
Earlier, at Père Lachaise cemetery, she’d stopped Finn from killing Dr Uhlemann. In return, Dr Uhlemann had commuted her sentence. At least for the time being.
She glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. Ten hours and forty-five minutes until the heliacal rising of Sirius. Still plenty of time for him to rescind the stay of execution.
Although not a lot of time to stop a mad man from changing world history.
Nearly fourteen hours ago, she’d been brought to the Seven Research Foundation’s laboratory. She had no idea where the facility was located other than the fact that it was somewhere in Paris; when they left the Obelisk at Place de la Concorde, she’d been blindfolded. Upon arriving, she was ushered to a small annex adjacent to a library. The room was comfortable enough with a sofa, a writing desk and a flat-screen television. While she had access to the library, she was forbidden from leaving her two-room prison. The intimidating bald-headed chauffeur, who currently had guard duty, ensured her cooperation.