“Yeah, from me!” Nina stood, grabbing her laptop.
Rust jumped up too, hands flapping as he begged her to sit back down. “Please, please! Your parents were great friends of mine, your father especially. We had a lot in common. Including a passion for unfashionable theories.” His look of pleading suddenly sharpened. “Like Atlantis.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to use my parents as a way to get my attention.”
“Do you know why I lost my job?” Rust asked, his tone hardening. “Because I helped your father. I secretly gave him the recovered Nazi documents that brought him and Laura closer to Atlantis than ever before. When what I had done was discovered, I was fired, disgraced—and in the end I lost my marriage because of it. Sabrina left me.”
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re looking in the wrong place,” Nina told him coldly. “My parents died because of what you gave them.”
“Your parents were prepared to take any risk to prove that they were right,” countered Rust. “You know this is true—you knew them. The search for Atlantis was their passion, their obsession, and it became yours too. And you would never have found Atlantis without them. Your work built on theirs.” Nina couldn’t deny that; she had made extensive use of her parents’ notes in her research. “And like them, you took great risks to prove your theories. Well, I too have a theory. Nobody believes it—but nobody believed your parents either, yet they were right.” Having said his piece, he seemed to sag, the tension of waiting for Nina’s response the only string holding him upright. “Please,” he said quietly. “At least hear what I have to say.”
Nina hesitated. She knew full well that Rust was playing on her emotions, and she resented the manipulation as much as his deception. But he would not have given the Nazi documents to her parents without knowing the risk he was taking in helping them … and he had paid the price, with his career, his marriage.
“All right,” she said reluctantly, her anger still there, but subsiding. “All right, I’ll listen. But that’s all.” She sat down. “I’m not promising anything else.”
Rust returned to his own seat, relieved. “That is all I ask.”
Arms folded, Nina regarded him through narrowed eyes. “So. Tell me your theory.”
“My theory,” Rust began, again lowering his voice, “concerns Arthur’s sword, Excalibur. I believe it is real—and that it still exists. What is more, I know how to find it.”
“Okay, so where is it?”
“I do not know.”
Nina blew an aggravated breath out through her teeth. “But you just said—”
“I said I knew how to find it; that is not the same as knowing where it is. I have always had a keen interest in the Arthurian legends, just as your parents did in Atlantis. And like them, I have devoted a great deal of time and effort to piecing together every last scrap of historical fact that I could discover. The story of King Arthur stretches far outside Britain, you know.” He looked at the sea beyond the windows. “It goes as far as the Middle East—which is where one of the clues that will lead us to Excalibur lies.”
“There’s no ‘us,’ Bernd,” Nina reminded him. “Not unless you convince me you’re right.”
Rust’s eyes flicked down at the disc. “And I will do so—all my research is there.” He looked back at her. “You know, of course, of King Richard I?”
“Richard the Lion-heart,” said Nina, nodding.
“When Richard set out on the Third Crusade in 1190, he took with him a very special item, a gift from the monks of Glastonbury Abbey in the west of England. They gave him a sword—a sword that once belonged to Britain’s greatest king.”
“Excalibur?”
Rust smiled. “No. Richard thought he carried Excalibur—but the monks had given him Arthur’s first sword, Caliburn. This is my theory—my unfashionable passion.”
Nina found herself starting to become intrigued, however unwillingly. “Go on.”
“Caliburn was broken in the battle between Arthur and King Pellinore, according to legend. This may or may not be true, but the sword was broken, I have no doubt of that. The pieces were kept, and, as a weapon of great importance, attempts were made to reforge it. But a mended weapon can never have the same strength as a newly forged one—and I believe that Arthur’s swords were more than mere steel. I will come to that later,” he went on, catching Nina’s quizzical expression. “So Merlin, who had made Caliburn, forged a replacement.”
“You believe Merlin was real?”
“There are too many historical references to him for me to doubt it, yes. Though he was not a wizard—at least, not in the magical sense.” Rust gave Nina a knowing smile. “He created a new weapon for Arthur, a sword even stronger than Caliburn—Excalibur. Now, legend says that Arthur was buried with it in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey. But the monks also had Caliburn in their possession, along with many of Arthur’s other treasures.”
“So where does Richard the Lion-heart come into it?”
“Glastonbury Abbey was one of the wealthiest monasteries in England,” Rust explained. “Much of that wealth came from its connection to the legend of Arthur. Of course, wherever there is wealth, there will always come those demanding tribute. Richard was no exception.”
“So the monks gave him Excalibur,” said Nina, before she realized where Rust was heading. “Or rather, they told him it was Excalibur—because they had no intention of giving up the real sword.”
“Precisely! Excalibur was buried in Arthur’s tomb, a black stone pyramid that the monks discovered in 1191—one year after Richard left on the Crusade. Though ‘discovered’ is not the right word—they knew where it was all along.”
“They unveiled it,” Nina realized. “Like opening a new attraction at a theme park.”
“Yes. The abbey had been damaged by a fire, and even that wealthy monastery’s resources would have been strained by the cost of repairs. But the tomb of Arthur would bring them many visitors … and their money.”
“So what happened to the tomb? I know for a fact that King Arthur’s bones aren’t on display anywhere.”
“No, they are not. After the tomb was discovered, the bodies of Arthur and his queen, Guinevere, were moved to within the abbey itself. But when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries around 1539—”
“By ‘dissolved’ you mean ‘destroyed,’ right?” Nina cut in.
“Quite so. When the abbey was destroyed, so was the tomb, and nothing of it was ever found.”
“So the only thing left of Arthur was Caliburn?”
Rust was smiling again. “Not quite. This is what my research has told me, this is my theory. Think about it—the monks of Glastonbury were willing to risk tricking the king to protect their treasure. So when they revealed—unveiled, as you say—the tomb of King Arthur to the world, I believe they had already moved the real contents of the tomb to another place, somewhere that fire or robbers, or kings, could not find them. Only the monks knew where this place was—and when the monastery was destroyed, the knowledge was lost. But there was one place it remained—inscribed on Caliburn!”
Nina was skeptical. “Why would the monks do that? It’d be like giving the key to Fort Knox to Goldfinger.”
“They did not expect Richard to take the sword with him on the Crusades. And they would never have expected him to do with the sword what he did.”
“Which was?”
“On his way to the Holy Land, Richard stopped in Sicily, where in the manner of kings of that time he started a small war over some trivial matter.” Rust shook his head dismissively, unruly hair waving. “The ruler of Sicily at that time was Tancred of Lecce, and when he signed a peace treaty with Richard in 1191, Richard presented him with a token of their new friendship …”
“Caliburn,” Nina realized.
“Though both Tancred and Richard thought it was Excalibur.”
She was still dubious. “I never heard that story before.”
“It was not exact
ly something Richard wanted widely publicized at home, that he had given away one of England’s greatest treasures. But when Richard continued on to the Holy Land, Tancred was left with the sword, which passed down to his successors until it reached Frederick II.”
“Ah!” said Nina, recognizing a historical figure with whom she was far more familiar. “The Holy Roman Emperor.”
“And another crusader—although a very different kind from Richard.”
“Making alliances with the Muslims so he could just walk into Jerusalem and claim it without a single life being lost wasn’t quite what the pope had in mind,” she said with a grin.
Rust smiled back. “No. But it was through those alliances that the sword found its way to the Middle East. When Frederick took over Jerusalem in 1229, many crusaders actually refused to follow him—he had been excommunicated by Pope Gregory IX, and they feared that allying themselves with him might earn them the same fate. But Frederick was able to persuade a few crusaders to support him, including a young knight called Peter of Koroneou—though that title came later. As a reward for his loyalty, Frederick presented Peter with the sword. Then in 1231, when Gregory lifted Frederick’s excommunication, it was seen as vindication for Peter’s actions, and he gained considerable influence as a result. As well as territory in the Holy Land, he was also granted a castle on Koroneou, in the Greek islands.”
“So Caliburn is on Koroneou?” Nina asked. Although she still had doubts, Rust’s research was definitely becoming interesting.
Rust shook his head. “If only. Peter was killed when he returned to the Holy Land to defend his territory against the Mamelukes in 1260. His sword, the one presented to him by Frederick, was broken in battle—as I said, a reforged sword is never as strong as a new one. Peter’s men returned his body to Koroneou for burial, along with pieces of the sword. I believe I have located one of these pieces, surprisingly close to home … but the current owner of the castle in which it may be hidden refuses to let me search for it. Perhaps someone of your fame would be more persuasive.” He gave her a wry smile, which quickly evaporated as he spoke again, gaining urgency. “But I know exactly where the tip of the sword is—or rather, where it was, until three weeks ago. This is why I could trust only you.” He tapped the disc case. “Why I had to destroy all my notes except this one copy—I could not risk anyone else getting hold of them.”
“Bernd, what’s going on?” Nina asked. “You said your life was in danger—why?”
“Through my research, I learned that the tip of the sword found its way back to Sicily,” Rust told her, “to a church with a historical connection to Frederick, in the village of San Maggiori. I would have gone to see it for myself, but ever since Sabrina left me, money has been a problem. I could no longer go to academic sources to fund my research, so I had to look elsewhere. I tried private sources across Europe, but nobody was interested—until I was approached by a Russian. He seemed very interested.” He glanced cautiously around the room again. “Unfortunately, I told him too much—and just two days later, the priest at San Maggiori was murdered—shot—and his church burned to the ground.”
“You think this Russian tried to get the piece without you? And he killed to get it?”
“I am sure of it,” Rust insisted. “The local police think it was the Mafia, but the timing … it cannot be a coincidence. That is why I went into hiding, why I could not let anyone but you see my work. This man cannot be allowed to find the rest of Caliburn, to find Excalibur. The risk to the world is too great.”
Nina was back to being skeptical. “Why? I mean, it would be an incredible archaeological find, but Excalibur’s still just a sword.”
“Excalibur is more than just a sword,” said Rust, his eyes deadly serious. “In the ancient Welsh text called the Mabinogion, Arthur’s sword is said to have a design of two snakes on the hilt, and when he drew it …” He paused to recall the exact words. “‘What was seen from the mouths of the two serpents was like two flames of fire, so dreadful it was not easy for anyone to look.’ And in Le Morte d’Arthur, when Arthur drew his sword, ‘it was so bright in his enemies’ eyes that it gave light like thirty torches.’ It is no ordinary blade. Everything you need to know is in my notes. Please, see for yourself.”
She opened up her laptop and double-clicked on the file she had copied from the disc. “Okay, but I have to say this does sound a bit …” She wanted to say “crazy,” but instead settled for “… paranoid. So what’s the password?”
“Zum Wilden Hirsch. All one word, no capital letters.” Nina looked at him oddly. “It was the name of the guesthouse where I was staying when I encrypted the files. I needed something the Russians would never guess, even if they somehow got the disc.”
“Russians, plural?” Nina asked dubiously as she carefully typed in the letters. The computer chimed—the password had been accepted, giving her access. A folder opened, revealing dozens—no, hundreds—of files within. “Wow. You’ve, ah, made a lot of notes.”
“Another security precaution,” said Rust. He tapped his forehead. “The only index is in here. Without it, it will take days for anyone to sort through it all. But with my help, you will be able to see what I have found very quickly—and I hope it will convince you that I am right, that I know how to find the pieces of Caliburn … and that Caliburn will lead us to Excalibur.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Nina looked up at Rust. “So which file should I read—”
She froze.
An intense pinprick of green light had appeared on Rust’s chest, unnoticed by him. It slipped across his crumpled clothing, stopping directly over his heart …
The high-pitched crack as a small hole was blown through the window beside Nina was drowned out by the crash as Rust flew backward, a vivid gout of blood exploding from the bullet wound in his chest.
FOUR
Nina leapt to her feet—partly in shock, but also in case the sniper was lining up a second shot on her.
But the laser spot flashed away and was gone. Nina ran to the window. A hole as wide as her finger had been punched through the glass. Beyond it, on the roof of the International Centre, she saw the sniper—a woman, hard-faced, ragged hair dyed bright orange—swing up her rifle, then duck away behind the edge of the building.
“Hey!” someone shouted from behind her. “He’s stealing your laptop!”
Nina spun to see the man with the scar charging for the exit with her MacBook and the disc, his huge hand making the machine seem no bigger than a paperback.
Rust—
One look told her that he was dead, eyes wide and still, mouth half open as if about to speak. But he would never speak again—and whatever he had been about to share with Nina was now heading out of the door.
“Call 911!” she shouted as she started after the bearded man. “I mean, whatever number it is here, call the police!”
The hulking thief ran deeper into the hotel. Nina pursued him. The young guy followed, eager to prove himself a hero. But his steel faltered somewhat when he realized just how big his target was. “Did you call the police?” Nina demanded, seeing a phone in his hand. He fumbled with the keypad, slowing slightly as his attention was diverted.
Ahead, the big man reached a junction. He too slowed, looking each way, first in confusion, then frustration, before going right.
Nina rounded the corner to find herself in a clone of the corridor she’d just left. A maid was closing the door of one of the rooms, her housekeeping cart angled across the passage. The bearded man yelled something in a foreign tongue—Russian? Nina thought—as he stumbled into it, scattering spray bottles of cleaning products. The maid shrieked.
The man looked back, saw Nina and her companion running after him—
And picked up the entire cart, hoisting it almost effortlessly and flinging it down the corridor at them.
“Jesus!” Nina threw herself against a door. The slight recess gave her just enough space to dodge the angular missile—but the young man was les
s lucky, looking up from his phone a moment too late. The cart smashed into him and knocked him down, its remaining contents flying everywhere.
Nina straightened, but the bearded man wasn’t finished. Now he picked up the maid and hurled the screaming woman at her. This time Nina had nowhere to go. Both women tumbled to the floor among the debris.
Their attacker let out a satisfied grunt at the chaos, then turned and ran again.
“Son of a bitch!” Nina gasped as she struggled upright. The maid seemed more shocked than hurt, but the young man was moaning, clutching a broken wrist. “Are you okay?” she asked the woman, getting a confused nod in reply. She pointed at the injured man. “Help him!”
His phone lay among the scattered soaps and shampoos, screen glowing. Nina snatched it up and broke into a pained run after the giant.
He reached another junction, frustration now evident as his head snapped from left to right and back again. He was lost, Nina realized—trapped by the bland conformity of the corridors, and apparently unable to read the signs directing guests through the maze.
He looked back at her and scowled, the scar on his forehead twisting the lines of his skin. Nina slowed. If he changed tactics and attacked her instead of running, she wouldn’t stand a chance.
But instead he turned away, going left. Wrong way, she thought, reading the sign as she ran after him. If he couldn’t find the exit, there was a chance he could be caught before he got away or hurt anyone else.
But she needed help, someone who could take down the overmuscled giant …
• • •
Chase was guiding the Focus through the traffic, his grandmother sitting beside him with a bag of shopping on her lap and several more lined up on the backseat, when his phone rang. He sighed and fumbled in his pocket. “Can you answer that for me, Nan?” he asked, handing it to her. “Don’t want to get in trouble with the police on my first day back in the country.”