He dips into his jacket pocket, takes out an untraceable cell phone and sends a text message: Goin shopz tomoz, wannacum? Shrn.
It’s code to have Zachra call him straight away. If her parents saw it, she’d be able to explain it as being from her friend Sharron.
Across the room is a video wall with feeds to more than fifty domestic and international outposts. Behind him is an electronic wallboard, upon which is mapped key operations and the deployment of manpower and resources.
The burner beeps and he grabs it.
The return message says: Calluin5.
He takes the phone and walks to the window while he waits. The seconds weigh heavy. People forty floors below move like ants on the sidewalks.
His burner rings.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve only got a minute.’ Zachra sounds nervous.
Gareth gets to the point. ‘Those mini-cams I gave you. You have to put them in place. Right this minute, while your father is out. Do you understand?’
‘When can you get me out of here?’ She sounds desperate.
‘As soon as we record your father saying something we can act on.’
She pauses for a minute. Her mother is in there cleaning the house, no doubt looking for her. ‘I have to go.’
‘You must do this, Zachra. For your own sake, you have to do it and you need to do it right now.’
105
Chris Wilkins is out on a long, meandering daytrip on his own, in a Toyota sedan he rented first thing this morning. The RV would have been no good for what he has in mind. He takes the 101 to Interstate-80, cruises San Bruno, Brisbane and Bayview before hitting South Beach, Oakland Bridge, Emeryville and Walnut Creek.
Around midday he grabs a third-rate hamburger and a cold beer in a place buzzing with flies and bar bums. After freshening up, he rolls on and off the 680, through Danville and San Ramon before cutting into Castro Valley and then over the Bay via the San Mateo Bridge.
By the time he hits the freeway back to Coyote Point, he’s close to exhausted. But it’s been worth it. He’s found the surprise he’s been looking for.
He cracks a wide smile when he pulls up outside the RV and finds Tess stretched out on a striped fabric fold-up chair with a book across her suntanned legs.
She tips her shades as he approaches. ‘Tough day at the office, baby?’
‘Somethin’ like that. My back is killing me. Seats in that rental are so bad they’d give a ghost spinal problems.’
‘Come inside, I got something that will take the pain away.’
She takes his hand and leads him up into the RV. She clunks the door behind them, wraps her hands around the back of his grizzly-bear neck and kisses some life into him.
He lets his fingers wander and she gently eases him away. ‘That’s not what I invited you in here for.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No.’ She points to the open laptop on the galley table. ‘Feast your eyes over there.’
Chris taps the spacebar to clear the screensaver and studies the Facebook page and its new postings. His eyes light up. ‘You’re the best, sweetcheeks. Simply the best.’
106
A glance at the digital clock on the dash of Mitzi’s blue Ford rental tells her she’s been on the road for three hours and still has a quarter of her hundred and seventy-five miles to go.
Vicky had added a helpful footnote to her briefing, mentioning that Wales has more castles than any other country in the world but so far, Mitzi hasn’t seen any, let alone the one she wants to find.
‘Goddamned British drivers!’ She rides her horn at a giant yellow tractor crawling behind a road full of sheep.
A ruddy-faced old farmer in a green Barbour gilet and flat cap turns on his high seat and glowers back.
It’s another fifty minutes before she gets past and the sat-nav chirpily announces, ‘Turn left and you have reached your destination.’
‘About freakin’ time.’
She takes the unmarked turning and finds herself driving a rutted dead-end of a dirt track.
‘In fifty metres you will have reached your destination.’
‘Where?’ Mitzi peers in anger through the windshield. ‘You crazy piece of crap, where’s my castle?’
A black and white chequered flag pops up on the sat-nav screen and waves jubilantly as the Ford bumps in and out of potholes and stops at a hedge and fence.
‘You have reached your destination.’
Mitzi pulls the handbrake on. ‘Jee-zus! You stupid, stupid machine!’
‘You have reached your destination,’ repeats the voice defiantly, then offers a new screen and the chance to gamble on a fresh destination.
She gets out of the car so that she doesn’t pull the damned thing off and beat it against the dashboard.
Skylarks flap from surrounding birch trees and the air is fresh with scents of long grass and wild flowers. It’s nice to be out of the car. Far across the fields, there’s a dense forest around a hill. She’s willing to bet a first-class flight home that Caergwyn Castle is hidden in the thick of it.
Mitzi returns to the car and checks the address and details that Vicky gave her.
She’s entered all the strangely spelt names correctly and the postcode is right. Ideally, she wanted to see Gwyn tonight and force a face-to-face with George Dalton. But right now she doesn’t fancy driving around like a lost tourist for another hour. Vicky’s notes show that Rhys Mallory, the man Sir Owain took legal steps to silence, lives just two miles from where she is.
She enters his address in the navigation system and presses the touchscreen.
‘Make a U-turn when possible and take the next right.’
‘You’d better be right.’ Mitzi scorches the screen with a glare as she starts the car and follows the instructions.
Ten minutes later, she’s bouncing down a farm track towards a solitary detached stone cottage. She parks behind a beat-up Land Rover Defender that looks like it’s never been washed and gets out. As she flaps the door shut, a dog barks out of view.
A scruffy, silver-haired man in filthy brown overalls appears, with a black and white collie at his heels.
‘Can I help you?’ His voice is coated in a thick Welsh accent.
‘Professor Mallory?’
He looks her over. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a lieutenant with an FBI unit that specializes in religious, historical and unexplained crimes.’
‘FBI, eh?’ He wipes his hands on an oily rag and takes the glossy ID card she’s offering. He examines it with amusement and hands it back. ‘This is a long way for the Eff-Bee-Eye to come.’
‘It certainly is. I’d like to speak to you about Sir Owain Gwyn.’
‘Really?’ His eyes widen. ‘Now that’s funny, isn’t it? You want me to talk about the very thing I’m legally not allowed to talk about. How do you suppose we do that, then?’
‘How about we have one of those conversations that afterwards we both deny ever took place?’
‘Off the record, you mean?’
His habit of answering her questions with a question starts to grate. ‘Yes.’
He waits a second and then nods his assent. ‘Follow me round the back of the house. You might as well have a cup of tea while we’re not having that conversation.’
107