digital token codes that need alphanumeric logins to retrieve the pass codes of any documents sent to them.
Circle secretary Lance Beaucoup, reads the minutes of the last meeting. He is mid-thirties, tall, dark-haired with the broad shoulders of a swimmer and the waist of a gymnast. His voice has a Gallic lilt.
‘Does anyone wish to comment?’ asks Owain.
The room is silent.
‘Then take them as passed, Lance.’
There’s an awkward silence. One filled with expectancy and fear.
The Frenchman continues, ‘We come to the issue of our
trusted
colleague. Our absent friend.’
All eyes fall on the empty twelfth seat at the table.
‘It is now clear,’ says Owain, ‘that Angelo Marchetti has broken from our order. He has a secret life beyond his secret life. One of gambling, cocaine and crime. Angelo has been siphoning off money. His own accounts have been forged and he is personally bankrupt.’
Mutterings break out.
‘Please – I haven’t finished.’ He waits until silence has been restored. ‘He has stolen several artefacts from the Order and may have fled the country. From what we have been able to discover, he used local crooks to sell a number of burial crosses that he himself had looted. A religious dealer of dubious repute in America was approached and he acquired one cross. He was killed two days ago by Marchetti’s men. We aren’t sure why.
‘We now have a complication,’ continues Owain. ‘I’ve harboured suspicions about Angelo for a while so had him followed the last few weeks.’ He nods across the table to a young Englishman. ‘George tailed his men as they drove away from the dealer’s in Maryland. He’ll tell you the rest.’
George Dalton, a slightly built man with a trimmed dark beard and pale blue eyes, gives his account of what happened. ‘After the killing, two men left the scene. They stopped on the outskirts of Kensington and went into a copse. Only one of them came out. He drove south and pulled in at an all-night diner about a third of a mile east of Dupont Circle. I watched him eat at a booth by the window. When he returned to the car I tackled him. Unfortunately, he was more skilled an adversary than I expected and had a knife.’ George raises his arm to show his bandaged hand and wrist. ‘I’m afraid it was a very close-quarters encounter and he was killed. I recovered a Knight’s Cross from the glove compartment of his car.’
Owain interrupts. ‘There are still two crucifixes missing and possibly other artefacts that we don’t yet know about. We presume Angelo has now lost faith in his minions and is personally trying to sell the crosses. I think we can all guess to whom he will eventually turn and what the consequences of that could be.’
Fresh mutterings break out and Lance takes this as his cue. ‘As of this moment, Angelo Marchetti is expelled from our Order and we are issuing an alert for his capture and permanent exile. You should put whatever bounty you wish on his head and treat this as a matter of utmost urgency.’
Owain sees their sadness. The man with a death warrant on his head had been a friend and comrade to them for many years and his betrayal is hard to believe. ‘Be in no doubt – Angelo poses the biggest threat to our existence for centuries. Do not hesitate to act resolutely in this matter. We have no room for forgiveness, emotion or error. Strike swiftly; our chance may come but once.’
23
INDIANA AVENUE, WASHINGTON DC
Police HQ is an imposing slab of sandstone and glass set among a collection of other similarly striking buildings that belong to the fire and justice departments, the district court and Department of Labor.
Up on the command corridor, the name etched on a door halfway down says CPT . ZACH FULO
.
Irish raps on it.
‘C’m’in!’ The words are spat out by a voice of grit and glue.
The cop opens the door and hesitantly steps inside.
A lean black man looks up from a desk layered in paperwork. ‘Take a
Circle secretary Lance Beaucoup, reads the minutes of the last meeting. He is mid-thirties, tall, dark-haired with the broad shoulders of a swimmer and the waist of a gymnast. His voice has a Gallic lilt.
‘Does anyone wish to comment?’ asks Owain.
The room is silent.
‘Then take them as passed, Lance.’
There’s an awkward silence. One filled with expectancy and fear.
The Frenchman continues, ‘We come to the issue of our
trusted
colleague. Our absent friend.’
All eyes fall on the empty twelfth seat at the table.
‘It is now clear,’ says Owain, ‘that Angelo Marchetti has broken from our order. He has a secret life beyond his secret life. One of gambling, cocaine and crime. Angelo has been siphoning off money. His own accounts have been forged and he is personally bankrupt.’
Mutterings break out.
‘Please – I haven’t finished.’ He waits until silence has been restored. ‘He has stolen several artefacts from the Order and may have fled the country. From what we have been able to discover, he used local crooks to sell a number of burial crosses that he himself had looted. A religious dealer of dubious repute in America was approached and he acquired one cross. He was killed two days ago by Marchetti’s men. We aren’t sure why.
‘We now have a complication,’ continues Owain. ‘I’ve harboured suspicions about Angelo for a while so had him followed the last few weeks.’ He nods across the table to a young Englishman. ‘George tailed his men as they drove away from the dealer’s in Maryland. He’ll tell you the rest.’
George Dalton, a slightly built man with a trimmed dark beard and pale blue eyes, gives his account of what happened. ‘After the killing, two men left the scene. They stopped on the outskirts of Kensington and went into a copse. Only one of them came out. He drove south and pulled in at an all-night diner about a third of a mile east of Dupont Circle. I watched him eat at a booth by the window. When he returned to the car I tackled him. Unfortunately, he was more skilled an adversary than I expected and had a knife.’ George raises his arm to show his bandaged hand and wrist. ‘I’m afraid it was a very close-quarters encounter and he was killed. I recovered a Knight’s Cross from the glove compartment of his car.’
Owain interrupts. ‘There are still two crucifixes missing and possibly other artefacts that we don’t yet know about. We presume Angelo has now lost faith in his minions and is personally trying to sell the crosses. I think we can all guess to whom he will eventually turn and what the consequences of that could be.’
Fresh mutterings break out and Lance takes this as his cue. ‘As of this moment, Angelo Marchetti is expelled from our Order and we are issuing an alert for his capture and permanent exile. You should put whatever bounty you wish on his head and treat this as a matter of utmost urgency.’
Owain sees their sadness. The man with a death warrant on his head had been a friend and comrade to them for many years and his betrayal is hard to believe. ‘Be in no doubt – Angelo poses the biggest threat to our existence for centuries. Do not hesitate to act resolutely in this matter. We have no room for forgiveness, emotion or error. Strike swiftly; our chance may come but once.’
23
INDIANA AVENUE, WASHINGTON DC
Police HQ is an imposing slab of sandstone and glass set among a collection of other similarly striking buildings that belong to the fire and justice departments, the district court and Department of Labor.
Up on the command corridor, the name etched on a door halfway down says CPT . ZACH FULO
.
Irish raps on it.
‘C’m’in!’ The words are spat out by a voice of grit and glue.
The cop opens the door and hesitantly steps inside.
A lean black man looks up from a desk layered in paperwork. ‘Take a
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