Free The Camelot Code by Sam Christer

feels.
    ‘
Fallon

–
that’s me.’ She waves a hand.
    ‘You’re late in.’
    She can’t believe his attitude. ‘Yeah, well, shit happens. Stick it on the bill. And while you’re doing that, add another ten dollars because I need some coffee before you drive me anywhere.’
    He laughs and shakes his head in disbelief that he has to wait even longer. ‘There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Green Leaf or a Guava and Java, all within a minute of here.’
    ‘Dunkin’. The other two sound expensive and I’m in no mood to talk lapsang souchong to some spotty student.’
    ‘Can I take your bag?’
    She notices that he smells of booze and looks like death. ‘I got it. Do I really look so weak that I can’t roll a trolley bag?’
    ‘No, you don’t. But you’re sure as hell snappy.’ He leads the way to the coffee shop. ‘I was just being polite.’
    ‘Yeah, well, in your case
polite
would be having a shower after a night on the beer.’
    ‘I worked late last night so didn’t get home to change. I’m sorry. I’m having something of a bad time at the moment.’
    ‘Yeah, well, bad time is no excuse for bad smell. My bad time runs all the way back to LA via San Francisco and courtesy of enough men smelling of liquor to know the score.’ She catches that maybe she’s whipping him too hard. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Remind me when you drop me off and I’ll make it up to you with a good tip.’
    They arrive at the donut stand and join the queue. Mitzi flips open her purse. ‘You want coffee? I’m buying.’
    He looks pleased. ‘Why not? Dunkaccino Medium. Could manage a strawberry cheese Danish if you can stretch that far.’
    ‘You’re joking, right?
Strawberry cheese
? They
really
do that?’
    ‘Strawberry cheese, or apple cheese. Take your pick.’
    Mitzi goes strawberry plus a double espresso. She pays for everything and he picks up the bags and coffee from the counter.
    ‘Let’s sit a while and eat these,’ he motions to a table. ‘I don’t like to move around when I have food or drink.’
    She studies her watch. ‘Not sure I have time for batting the breeze. I should have met someone an hour ago.’
    ‘I know you should. A cop, name of Fitzgerald.’ He pulls out a chair for her. ‘You just met him. Sit down and he’ll brief you while we eat.’

29
     
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
     
    The rear lawn of the mansion glistens with morning dew.
    Two figures, both dressed head-to-toe in white, tread the turf in the sharp morning light.
    They nod respectfully, then fill the dawn air with the savage swish of steel.
    Sir Owain Gwyn and Lance Beaucoup first crossed swords at the Olympics when France fought Great Britain. In battle, a great friendship was forged and Lance subsequently joined the Order.
    Steel slashes air. Knees bend. Toes tap. The men spin and lunge and whirl, elegant figures in dazzling bright breeches and vests. Behind the foil facemasks, neither of them blink. To do so would be costly.
    Across the lawn, an electronic scoring box beeps and echoes thinly.
    First blood to the Frenchman – a fine feint followed by a lightning jab to the shoulder.
    Owain counters aggression with guile. His giant feet go light. For a second, he has the speed of a featherweight. He parries, then lunges.
    Lance dances backwards, ropes in his aggression and tries to stay patient. He counters and parries. Backs off again.
    Owain lunges.
    The Frenchman flicks away the epee blade and catches him low in the abdomen.
    Another beep. A second point to the younger man.
    They touch blades. The dance begins again. One that in ancient times would have ended in defeat, death or, worst of all, dishonour. Feet fly back and forth across the damp turf like scampering pups.
    Lance cuts low, then high.
    Owain blocks.
    Both blades slide down to the bell guards. Eyes and muscles lock.
    Owain leans in. Hurls his foe backwards. Lunges again.
    The Frenchman deflects the blade downwards, steps to one side, stabs upwards.
    A