Fall of Knight (10 page)

“Put it down.”

“You have no right to it.”

“I said,” Bormann warned him, “put it down!”

He reached into his coat with the clear intention of pulling a gun. It was a foolish move, prompted more by loyalty to his Fuhrer and to the Reich than anything remotely approaching common sense. The shadow man, however, did not hesitate. He swung the Spear of Destiny around and jammed it right through Martin Bormann’s chest. It went in at an angle, slammed through, and came out his back, pointing toward the ceiling.

Bormann let out a terrified scream as the shadow man lifted Bormann off his feet as if he weighed nothing. The Spear didn’t bend in the slightest.

“You wanted to know if the Spear bore any special properties,” said the shadow man in a shockingly casual manner to Wagner. “This should answer that.”

Wagner started to lunge for his fallen gun, but then he stopped, paralyzed with horror, as he watched Bormann’s skin begin to blacken and crisp, as if he were being incinerated from the inside out. There was no heat, no stench of burning flesh, a smell with which Wagner had become all too familiar in the past years. Bormann was roasting from a fire that was not of this Earth.

The screaming had stopped almost immediately; perhaps Bormann’s vocal cords were the first things to go. All Wagner knew was that, within seconds, Bormann’s flesh was completely gone. All that was left were the tattered remains of his skeleton, held together by a few stray bits of flesh, muscle, and sinew that had miraculously avoided the fate of the rest of the body.

The shadow man casually angled the Spear downward and the remains of Martin Bormann slid off and onto the floor. He turned and looked toward Wagner, who still couldn’t make out any details of his face.

“Do you wish to share his fate?” asked the shadow man very quietly.

Wagner knew this was to be one of the defining moments of his life. His reaction in the face of such otherworldly danger would be the measure of the kind of man he was. He knew he wanted to spit out defiance, to tell this…this creature…to go to hell.

Instead the words that came out of his mouth were, “No. No…I don’t.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Captain,” the shadow man told him. He sounded slightly amused. “A pity that you allied yourself with a losing cause. You could have accomplished far more with the winning side. Then again…none of us chooses our destiny, I suppose.”

He had, by that point, inserted the fake spear into the container and snapped it shut. Then he gently tossed it over to Wagner so that it landed near him. “Farewell.”

“Who are you?” demanded Wagner.

The shadow man laughed. “An admirer,” he said. “An admirer of ancient artifacts. One who knows the way of things. I have been looking for this weapon for quite some time, and once I found it, I merely awaited the right moment to come and claim it. That moment is now. And now…the moment is passed. Again…farewell.”

He began to step back toward the shadows that had spat him out, and Wagner—trying not to moan from the blood loss—clutched at his shoulder, his hand already red with blood, and said, “But…what are you going to use it for?”

“Well,” said the shadow man, “I was thinking about perhaps destroying the world. We’ll have to see how that works out, though.”

With that, he stepped backwards in the shadows, bowing once again as he did so, and vanished.

C
ARDINAL FRANCIS PATRICK
Ruehl had never liked Arthur Penn. Not when he was president and certainly not now.

As far as Ruehl was concerned, Arthur’s entire approach to politics was to act as if he was completely different from all other politicians. In Ruehl’s experience, those who made the greatest point of emphasizing how different they were from all the other guys were the ones who were the most alike all the other guys. Thus, in his estimation, Arthur was very likely a massive hypocrite. Since Ruehl despised hypocrites, it meant he cared little for Arthur Penn or the way he had gone about doing his job.

Granted, his likes and dislikes were not of tremendous importance. His job wasn’t to decide whom to like. It was to perform the wishes of His Holiness, the Pope. And in this case, those wishes could not be clearer:

Bring the Holy Grail home.

Ruehl was prepared for a fight. That was normal, though. Ruehl was always prepared for a fight.

Of all the cardinals who operated out of the Vatican, Ruehl had a nose that held the record for most times broken. Ruehl was a scrapper, by both nurture and nature. This stemmed from his formative years growing up in some of the rougher sections of Brooklyn. He’d gotten into a lot of street fights and taken any number of poundings although he prided himself on giving as good as he got. Sometimes he didn’t like to think about where he would have wound up if his parish priest hadn’t intervened and guided him down the proper path to salvation. Then again, sometimes…he did like to think about where he would have wound up. Certainly, whether he’d lived or died, either way it would have been simpler than the life he now led.

Ruehl had a big, open face, with a lantern jaw that was perpetually thrust outward as if daring someone to take a swing at it. His hair was red to match his occasionally fiery disposition, and his eyes were dark and displayed piercing intelligence. Ruehl, for all that he believed in tolerance, did not suffer fools gladly, as any number of fools who had crossed him had discovered to their dismay.

He was feeling both jet-lagged and a bit cranky as the limousine angled up the main driveway of the White House. This was certainly not his first time visiting the seat of American executive power. He’d been meeting with American presidents regularly, in various capacities, for the last twenty-five years. They didn’t intimidate him. Why should he be intimidated? Whatever power they wielded, it stemmed from responsibilities ascribed them by mere voters and citizens. The man whom Cardinal Ruehl represented answered—as the old commercial went—to a much higher authority. This enabled him to look at those whom he encountered, no matter how powerful they were, with a certain degree of superiority. He knew that this wasn’t a charitable way to view the world. That he was even self-aggrandizing when by rights he should be self-effacing. Nevertheless, he was who he was, and he’d been around too long to start changing.

He knew that the White House was designed to intimidate visitors and remind them where the true seat of power was. But since Cardinal Ruehl knew where the true seat of power was in the grand scheme of things, naturally that did not work on him.

“We’re here, your Eminence,” said the driver, as the limo slowed.

“I can see that,” replied Cardinal Ruehl, peering out the window. “You can keep the engine running if you want. This shouldn’t take long.”

T
HE MAN SIMPLY
doesn’t like me,” Arthur said in irritation as Gwen straightened his necktie. “He doesn’t like me, and neither does the Pope.”

“The Pope loves everyone. It’s in his job description somewhere.”

Arthur chuckled at that. Then he frowned. “Why is he coming here again?”

“Arthur, why do you think?” She stepped back, checking her handiwork and nodding approvingly. “You’ve gone public with the Holy Grail. Do you seriously think that’s not going to set off a few bells at the Vatican?”

“I suppose.” He paused a moment, then said, “What do you think I should say?”

“About what?”

“When he wants to take it.”

She sighed. “Do you think that’s what he’s coming here for?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“It’s entirely possible,” she admitted. “What are you going to tell him if he does?”

“I could swear I just asked you that question.”

“You don’t need to ask me what to say to people. I’m sure you have your own thoughts on the matter.”

“Yes, well,” and he straightened the lapels of his dark blue jacket. There was amusement in his eyes. “I was probably going to tell him to sod off.”

“You can’t do that, Arthur.” She pointed around them at the Lincoln Bedroom. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re guests here. You’re no longer in residence. The last thing we need to do is cause Terrance problems by you bitch-slapping Cardinal Ruehl around.”

“Any man with a name like that deserves a little slapping, don’t you think?”

“No, I really don’t. And the press is going to be there as well, so for God’s sake, don’t you think a little decorum would be appropriate?”

“All right,” Arthur said reluctantly. “But just a little.”

T
HE MEETING WAS
scheduled to be held in the Mural Room, and a selection of the press corps was already set up there. It was Arthur and Stockwell’s mutual decision that the interview with Ruehl should not be held in the Oval Office. To all intents and purposes, Arthur was acting as a private citizen, even though he was a guest in the White House. Stockwell didn’t want to give anyone the impression that the things he had been saying, or the claims he’d been making, were in any way endorsed by the office of the president.

Indeed, Stockwell had been walking one hell of a tightrope ever since Arthur’s return and various announcements. The natural question that was being posed to him was, “Do you believe that Arthur Penn is truly King Arthur? Are you supporting his claim that Gwendolyne Penn was cured by the Holy Grail?” Mahoney had dodged the question for as long as he was able to—which wasn’t all that long—until finally Stockwell came out himself and said, in as straightforward a manner as he could, “I believe that former President Penn believes it, I have tremendous respect for him, and I have no intention of disputing him in this matter.” Which was, of course, a long and roundabout way of saying, “I don’t want any part of this.”

Consequently, when the call came from the Vatican, Ron Cordoba made damned sure that the president’s schedule required him to be the hell out of Washington, DC, when the Cardinal made his appearance. As far as Cordoba was concerned there was no advantage, none, to Stockwell’s being there. Later, when the public meeting between Arthur and the Cardinal came completely unraveled, Ron’s decision would be seen as uncannily prescient, instead of what it was: familiarity with Arthur’s ability, through his imperiousness and annoying tendency to say exactly what was on his mind, to take any potentially incendiary situation and transform it into a full-blown incident. Ron’s respect for Arthur as a man—and for that matter, as a king, accustomed to everyone doing exactly what he said when he said it—was second to none. But he was all too aware of Arthur’s limitations. The very attributes that made him a great king served, in Ron’s opinion, to make him a problematic president.

If the United States had been at peace, God only knew what sort of difficulties Arthur would have had. But because America was under a state of siege, the people and Congress had rallied around him, a state of affairs that was ideally suited to one of Arthur’s peculiar talents. And although Ron would never, in a million years, have wished Gwen’s trauma upon her, part of him thought that—in the final analysis—Arthur’s departure from power couldn’t have come in a more timely fashion. Except he felt so guilty feeling that way that it had been partly what motivated him to accompany Arthur on his insane, albeit ultimately successful, quest to revive the fallen first lady.

But Ron knew Arthur, and he also knew Cardinal Ruehl—a pugnacious individual with a stubborn streak almost as wide as Arthur’s. Initially Ron had wanted the meeting between the two to be in private, but the Cardinal stated that the Pope wanted all communication between his envoy and the United States to be open and aboveboard. Arthur had made similar sentiments known, leaving Ron no wiggle room. He likened the entire upcoming encounter to walking a tightrope smeared with butter, with broken glass as a safety net. He was going to do his damnedest to prevent things from getting out of hand by being present to ride herd. If he failed, then it was merely the chief of staff screwing up. His place in the affair would be forgotten in short order. But if the president were present, his “failure” would be a part of the story, whatever the story was and however long it perpetuated. It would make him look weak, and that was exactly what Cordoba wanted to prevent.

So it was that that day in the Mural Room, the president was off inspecting some well-timed tornado damage in Wisconsin when Arthur Penn sat down in a chair opposite Cardinal Ruehl. Gwen was seated next to him, and Ron was standing nearby. He was standing mainly because he felt that it afforded him a slight position of power by being able to look “down” at the two men who were eyeing each other warily. They shook hands as cameras flashed. It reminded Ron that the tradition of handshaking developed from a time when it was the best means for two suspicious men to make sure the other wasn’t holding a weapon to stab him. It underscored for Ron just the type of environment that had forged Arthur. In the twenty-first century, it was simply a traditional hand greeting. In Arthur’s time, it was the potential difference between life and death.

“I have,” Cardinal Ruehl said with his customary stiffness, “a message to read from His Holiness.” He reached into the folds of his robes, and it was at that moment that Ron saw Percival standing off to the side. He hadn’t even noticed the Grail Knight enter the room. It was amazing how quietly such a large and occasionally menacing-looking man could move. He had his White House security tag hanging around his neck, so the Secret Service hadn’t challenged him. Ron had a feeling that that was a good thing: If the Secret Service tried to go up against Percival, there was every chance they would come up on the short end of the confrontation.

Ruehl placed a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose and peered at the letter. “We extend greetings to former President Penn, and heartfelt congratulations over the recovery of his lovely wife. In this day and age of cynicism and skepticism, it is comforting to see an indisputable example of a miracle in our midst. The subsequent resuscitation of the gentleman of the press presented even further proof, for the many doubters and strayed among us, that the hand of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ, is present in our day-to-day lives. However,” and Ruehl paused just a heartbeat, peering over the tops of his glasses before continuing, “although faith is a part of our everyday lives, and we accept the words of our savior as faith, we regret we cannot accept that pure faith to the words of mere men. We leave your claims of immortality and ancient pedigree to others to investigate. But we find your claim to be in the possession of the cup of Christ to be so monumental that we believe the full resources here at the Vatican must be brought to bear to explore it. There is, needless to say…”

“And yet he says it anyway,” Arthur commented softly. Ron saw Gwen nudge him slightly.

“…a great deal of interest from every quarter of not only the Catholic Church, but the whole of Christendom,” continued Ruehl as if Arthur hadn’t spoken. “Therefore, it is my request—” Again, Ruehl paused, and this time he lowered the paper and said with slow clarity, as if (to Ron’s mind, at least) he was addressing a simpleton, “I wish to emphasize that the ‘my’ refers, not to me, but to His Holiness himself…”

“Yes,” said Arthur with a tight, restrained smile. “Even a thousand years ago, we had a thorough grasp of pronouns.”

This prompted a ripple of laughter from the assembled press. Ruehl’s face, however, remained slightly pinched. He returned his gaze to the paper. “Therefore, it is my request that the reputed Holy Grail be transferred into the possession of my emissary, Cardinal Ruehl”—and he tapped himself unnecessarily on the chest—“to be transported immediately to Rome. There it will spend the next year being investigated and examined by a wide variety of experts, both theological and scientific. It will be subjected to a rigorous battery of tests to determine its authenticity. If, after that time, we have reason to believe that your claim is genuine, then we assume you would have no objection to the cup of Christ remaining on permanent display in the Vatican. After all, should it be the genuine cup that our savior drank from at the Last Supper, or that caught his blood when he was crucified, it would naturally be the single greatest find in the history of the Church, surpassing even—in my opinion—the Shroud of Turin or claimed pieces of the cross.

“Although naturally we cannot and would not endeavor to force you to accede to our request, please note that we judge you to be a good and fair man who would certainly agree that this presents the best course of action insofar as the reputed Grail would be concerned.”

Cardinal Ruehl then carefully folded the missive and replaced it within his robes. Then he carefully interlaced his fingers, resting his hands upon his lap, and said, “May I have the cup, please.”

In retrospect, Ron would conclude that it was the way he said it—as if the cup coming into his possession was a foregone conclusion and Arthur was simply a messenger of the Pope’s will—that sent the train clattering calamitously off the rails. If the Cardinal had been deferential, or unassuming, or even (don’t laugh) humble, there was a possibility that maybe, just maybe, things would have gone differently.

As it was, Arthur sat there for a long moment, one eyebrow raised, as if he were studying some new and intriguing bit of mold that had presented itself on a sandwich. Then, very calmly, he said, “The Grail is not mine to give.”

“I beg your pardon?”