The Camelot Code by Sam Christer

lesson into the bargain.’

32
     
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
     
    Breakfast is served in the Gwyns’ ornate Edwardian conservatory. The golden light of what is becoming a beautiful morning rests on white linen tables and sparkles on china plates and silver cutlery.
    Owain is distracted. Myrddin’s prophecies and the long conversation of last night are playing on his mind. That and Mardrid’s mafia-like movements in the third world. Gradually, he becomes conscious of a white-coated waiter who’s appeared at the table. ‘Some Ceylon tea, fresh berries and a croissant, please.’
    The young waiter looks to Lance Beaucoup, who is settling into a chair.
    ‘Just coffee and a croissant.
Merci
.’
    The waiter drifts off to his duties.
    Lance nods to the third place set at the table. ‘Is Lady Gwyn joining us?’
    ‘No, she’s already out. Apparently, while we were having our extra fencing session she decided to go and ride the new horse that threw her the other day.’
    He looks concerned. ‘Was she hurt?’
    ‘Just her pride. It’s a Welsh Cob stallion, a giant white that really doesn’t want to be tamed.’
    ‘That is part of the Welsh character, is it not?’
    ‘It is.’ He looks amused. ‘I feel for the horse. Eventually, Jenny will win. She always does.’
    ‘This is why I never married.’ He laughs.
    ‘I hope one day you’ll feel differently.’
    The waiter returns with breakfast on a large silver tray. He holds it while a young waitress in a dark uniform pours the tea and coffee and serves the food.
    Owain waits until they’ve walked away before he strikes up a new conversation. ‘Has the Knight’s Cross been returned to the burial ground?’
    ‘It has. Gawain and Danforth did it last night.’
    ‘Good. I am still shocked and sickened that Angelo would commit such sacrilege. Robbing the grave of a fallen brother; it turns my stomach.’
    ‘Grave-
s
. Remember he took
three
crosses.’
    ‘Indeed. We have three fallen brothers who’ve been foully stripped of their honour. Is security now what it should be?’
    ‘It is. And we are reviewing procedures in other countries as well.’ Lance hesitates before voicing a more delicate question. ‘Would you like me to ask George to review the British resting grounds, or would you rather tell him yourself? They and the French ones are after all the oldest and most significant.’
    ‘You tell him.’ He’s pleased that Lance is pushing the boundaries of his authority, developing into a natural leader. ‘I’m done here; I need to get to work.’ He wipes his hands on his napkin and gets to his feet.
    Lance follows suit. ‘I will join you. If I stay here I will only fall asleep or drink too much coffee.’
    They leave the conservatory and head into the main part of the house. A long corridor takes them to a set of stairs that drop another landing.
    The two men use retinal and fingertip identification to pass into a short, wood-panelled cul-de-sac of three doors. The one to the left is filled by members of the Watch Team. To the right, Sir Owain’s private office.
    Straight ahead is the SSOA command centre. The heartbeat of their Order.

33
     
BRITISH EMBASSY, WASHINGTON DC
     
    After security checks have been completed, Mitzi and Irish are left in a high-ceilinged, dusty waiting room full of echoes and framed photographs of generations of British monarchs.
    Half an hour ticks by.
    Mitzi’s gossamer-thin patience is starting to shred when a blue-suited blond man strides in.
    ‘Hello, I’m Richard Stevens – how might I help you?’
    Irish badges him and spills several balled up tissues in the process. ‘Lieutenant Fitzgerald from DC Police and this is Mitzi Fallon, from the FBI.’ He pauses while she produces her credentials.
    Stevens takes both IDs and examines them carefully before returning them. ‘And you’re here, why?’
    ‘We’re running a homicide investigation and need your help.’ Irish gives a friendly shrug. ‘Hell, I know there are