The Camelot Code Read Free Page A

ensure no microscopic trackers have been sewn into their fabrics.
    ‘Your under-armour, sir.’
    ‘Thank you, James.’ Forty-two-year-old Owain comes from a long line of tall, broad, dark-haired Welshmen. At almost six foot six, her Majesty’s ambassador in America has to become a contortionist to get into the proffered garment. Although it looks like a combination of vest and long johns, it is a unique piece of clothing, fashioned from state-of-the-art grapheme, a fine mesh of carbon atoms that, according to the manufacturers, is ‘strong enough to support the weight of an elephant balancing upon a spike’. He wears it to protect him, not from gymnastic mammals but from bullets and bombs.
    ‘Comfortable, sir?’
    The roll of Owain’s warm brown eyes gives away the fact that he is not.
    A buzzer sounds.
    The flat-screen monitor above the door shows the output of eight security cameras around the residence, including the adjoining room where a tall, sandy-haired man in a sharp grey suit is waiting.
    The valet knows his time is up. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’
    ‘I’m afraid I’ll need you early tonight for my farewell charity dinner, say five?’
    ‘That’s not a problem, sir. Might I be so bold as to say something personal?’
    ‘Feel free.’
    ‘I’m sure the government of the United States will miss you greatly. I think you have done amazing things in your work here, sir and it’s been an absolute pleasure to serve you. You’ll leave quite a hole.’
    ‘For all of a week, James. Then the hole will be filled and I’ll be forgotten. But thank you for your kind comments. You should get off now, make the most of the rest of your day and the short time we have left in Washington.’
    The former guardsman gives a courteous nod, takes a neat military stride to the door and pulls it open for the ambassador.
    Owain greets Gareth Madoc, a childhood friend and former army colleague, with the Welsh equivalent of good morning, ‘
Bore da
.’ He waves at a breakfast trolley. ‘Do you have room and time to have a
crempog
with me?’
    The former soldier smiles. ‘I
alway
s have time for a
crempog
.’
    The two men go back to a life before knighthoods, international postings and politics. Their history stretches beyond the green valleys where they were born to the intertwined genealogy of two clans who lived and fought together in days long before Romans ruled Britain.
    Madoc leans down to the lower tray of the trolley and lifts out a wicker breadbasket covered by a starched white cloth. ‘A little surprise with your breakfast.’ He grasps the square of cotton and jerks it away, like a magician performing a table trick.
    Owain stares at the basket’s contents. He carefully removes the single object and handles it with reverential respect. He turns it over in his scarred hands, then kisses it. ‘Who recovered this?’
    ‘George.’
    ‘And the rest?’
    ‘Still missing.’
    Owain winces. ‘Were there casualties?’
    ‘Unfortunately, yes.’
    The ambassador flinches then passes the ancient relic back. ‘I am late. Please make sure it is returned to its proper place. We need to talk this afternoon about what’s still missing and what we tell the others when I meet them.’

5
     
NORTH BETHESDA, MARYLAND
     
    Irish bangs on the apartment door for the second time. ‘Police. Open up!’
    He stands to the side and slips the safety off his gun. Sophie Hudson is only a store assistant at Goldman’s but she called in sick on the day of the murder. If she’s mixed up in this killing, anything might happen and Irish doesn’t want that ‘anything’ to include a doped-up boyfriend with a spray-and-pray Mac-10.
    There’s a click. The door opens barely six inches.
    A croaky voice spills through the crack. ‘I’m not taking the chain off. Not until I see some ID.’
    Irish flips out his badge and holds it to the gap.
    She could be buying time. The killer might be climbing out a window and down a fire