Our man in Camelot

he is?'

'At the moment he's exactly what he says he is: a man writing a history book on—' Morris looked at Finsterwald questioningly, '—on who was it?'

Finsterwald swallowed. 'William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke. Born about 1146, died 1219,' he said grudgingly, as though he didn't like hearing himself admit any knowledge of such esoteric information.

'Doc has the run-down sheet on him.'

'On the level?' Shirley balanced the question delicately between insolence and a genuine request for confirmation.

'William Marshall, that's right.' Morris ignored her. 'Audley started getting interested in Marshall when he was in the Middle East ten years back, studying crusader castles. He's been working on him off and on ever since— couple of years ago when he was a visiting professor in Arabic studies at Cumbria University.'

Mosby remembered the sandcastle, its meticulous layout, the careful counting off of the towers…

William Marshall had been a crusader, and later on one of Richard the Lion-hearted's top advisers, so the biographical sheet had stated. And the whole thing was crazy, except that he was beginning to lose the capacity of being surprised by anything.

'And now he has a six-month furlough to complete his book.' Morris paused to nod at Shirley. 'On the level.'

'Uh-huh.' Her voice was almost neutral this time. 'So he's a real-life historian pretending to be a statistical analyst. And I was beginning to think he was King Arthur in disguise, maybe.'

'Not quite King Arthur, Mrs Sheldon. But perhaps Merlin the Magician, that's what we're hoping.'

Morris smiled at her, tolerantly, still unprovoked.

'He'll darn well need to be a magician,' said Mosby quickly, 'if you want him to find Mount Badon for us.'

'You think so?'

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Mosby weakened under the intensity of the dark eyes. 'I'm not an expert on Arthurian history.'

'But you've read the books on Davies's list, Captain.'

'Not all of them.' Mosby rallied. 'You don't become an expert on the Dark Ages in forty-eight hours by reading a few books, anyway. It'd need more like forty-eight months.'

'Unfortunately we don't have forty-eight months.'

'How long do we have?'

Morris shrugged. 'That we don't know. Perhaps no time at all. Certainly very little time.'

'To do what?' asked Shirley. 'To find this—Badon Hill place? Which Mose doesn't think can be found at all?'

'Is that what you think, Captain?' Morris paused. 'That it cannot be found?'

'Nobody's found it yet. There's no Badon on the map.'

'But I understand people have suggested where it might be.'

'Oh, sure—half a dozen places. But there's no way of proving any of them… after fifteen hundred years.'

'Except Major Davies thought differently.'

'But Major Davies is no longer with us.'

'Exactly. Which we are assuming is a case of cause and effect. All evidence that he was searching for Badon Hill was most expertly removed from his lodgings, and simultaneously he was also removed—

equally expertly.'

Finsterwald stiffened. 'We found the plane?'

'A portion of it.'

'It was on the radio we'd given up the search,' said Mosby.

'That was for public consumption. For the British—and others.' Morris's voice hardened a fraction. 'We got a piece Friday afternoon.'

'Only a piece?'

'The major debris is probably several miles to the west, in deeper water. The section we have was detached because of a violent internal explosion.'

'So the bastards fixed him,' muttered Finsterwald. 'And right on the goddamn base, too.'

'They did. But that's no concern of ours—Air Force Intelligence will deal with that when we give them the word, and not before. At the moment it's an accident, with the normal accident procedures. Because the longer they believe they've pulled off the double, the longer we have to catch up on what they're really doing.'

They.

What they are really doing.

'And just who is 'they'?' asked Mosby.

Finsterwald gave a snort. 'Now who d'you think has the know-how—and the gall—to knock down one of our planes in a NATO backyard? Harold Wilson?'