“Ich bin Herr Kobra, mein Herr Ademian,” came the reply in an accented German.
Standing well to the side, Rupen unlocked the door, then took three rapid steps back before saying, “Herein, Herr Kobra, langsamer, bine.”
Slowly, the door swung inward to disclose not one but two men, both neatly attired in business suits of American cut, one bearing an attach^ case of flashy ostrich hide. Seeing their hands to be empty of weapons and none of the four anywhere near to the flat bulges that his trained eye could identify as concealed pistols, Rupen looked up at the faces . . . and almost discharged the light-triggered Weirod in pure shock!
“As I live and breathe,” gasped Rupen in consternation, “it’s Seraphino Mineo! What the hell are you doing in Hamburg?”
With one of his fleeting near-smiles, the stocky man switched to Sicilian Italian to say, “Mostly, following you, honored sir. That and selecting a convenient place to set up a meeting between you and this gentleman. He wishes to conduct some business with you.”
Willing to at least listen to the proposal of almost anyone, Rupen waved his guests to seats, but remained cautiously standing himself. The strange man presently produced some documents which identified him as one Karl Olwen Torgeson, an employee of the Department of Defense of the United States of America.
“Okay,” said Rupen casually, “what does DOD want with me, this time? Or do you really represent DOD, Mr. Torgeson? If I’m wrong, I’m sorry, but I’ve been at this game a long time and I think I sniff something very spooky about you and this whole setup. If General Macey or whoever had wanted to see me, he would have simply contacted my firm and they would have had a coded message to that effect in my hands far quicker and easier than the shenanigans you went through took.
“So until you convince me you do represent who you say you do, I consider this meeting to be at an end, and if you don’t get out of this suite damned quick, I’ll shoot your ass!”
Torgeson sat stock-still, stunned, his mouth open and moving but no sounds issuing from it. Mineo, his own face its usual blank, just nodded slowly.
“I told you all,” he said in English. “I told you you couldn’t put nothing over on Mr. Ademian here—he’s sharp as a shiv, he is! You damn CIA boys with all your college degrees make me sick sometimes, honest to God you do. Youse seems to think ain’t nobody but you got brains or knows how to use ’em. Well, you learned this time!”
Torgeson’s mouth snapped shut and he paled, a tic starting up under one eye. “Dammit, Mineo, you had no right to reveal … to speak of the … be warned, our superiors will assuredly hear of this unforgivable breach of security!”
Mineo shrugged. “I’ll get piles on my piles and lay awake every night worryin’ ’bout it, you shithead. Besides, Mr. Ademian knowed what you really was without me tellin’ him. Cain’t you see that, or are you really as fuckin’ dumb as you act and look? I hadn’t thought that was possible.”
“The Central Intelligence Agency?” queried Rupen, a little doubtfully. “But Mr. Mineo, I had thought … at least we were told years back when we … ahhh, employed you briefly, that you were a … that you were connected to another, entirely different group, a civilian organization, shall we say.”
“Oh sure, Mr Ademian,” said Mineo. “I’m mobbed up,
have been mosta my life, even before I come to the States. But my family, they’s working with thesehere boys on some things for two-three years, now. That’s how I come inta thishere. And when I told ’em I knows you personal, like, they flew me over here to interduce Torgeson here to you.
“Look, at least hear the stupid little fucker out, huh? He may have shit for brains, but then he’s just the front man and the fellas wants to talk to you is back in Paris, see. They got damn serious problems and need help real bad.”
No gold or jewels were visible at first glance in the opened coffin, but nonetheless, what was there appeared a true treasure trove to Simon Delahayle’s astonished eyes. A sword lay in its sheath—from its hilt, a modern sword, too, no relic from ages past. There was a long dirk, too, of a peculiar pattern, several daggers and knives and a wheel lock pistol, but apprently no balls or powder for it. There were also some bags and leathern pouches, but the thing that really caught and held Simon’s gaze was a big, egg-shaped thing of a silvery sheen.
The thing was about a foot long and nearly as wide, and it shone as if but just polished; no trace of oxidation anywhere marred its surface. Simon reached out for the silver egg, then changed his mind and took up the sheathed sword instead. After so many years deprived of one, his hands fairly itched for the feel of the hilt.
He drew the blade and examined it before the firelight. It looked to be damascus steel, a wavy, colorful pattern irregularly reflecting back the flames down the length of steel, from quillions to point. The outer guard was of pierced sheet steel, padded inside with softened leather. Although completely lacking any gilding or silvering, it was nonetheless a splendid, beautifully made weapon, a gentleman’s battlebrand, no question about it. And Simon felt more noble than he had in long years, just to be holding the weapon in his hand.
He laid aside the other edged weapons and the pistol, which last was simply an unhandy club without charges for it, and went next at the bags and pouches. One pouch contained
some two dozens of strange, thin, flat pieces of an unusual glass with a fine wire of tin or silver protruding from each end and one side. It was beyond him what they might be good for, so he closed the pouch and laid it atop the pile of daggers and knives down at the end of the coffin.
The first bag that he picked up jingled, and, hardly daring to hope, Simon untied the drawstring and then poured his hand full to overflowing with minted silver shillings and sixpences. All of them were well worn, and not a few had been clipped to one degree or another. Most were of Arthur II, the grandfather of the Usurper and great-grandfather to the rightful king. A smaller bag contained about a troy pound of gold coins of equal age and condition.
Simon sat back and earnestly recited a prayer in thanks to God. No need now to tramp the roads like a runaway serf, doing manual labor for yeomen, or stealing at risk of his neck, or poaching game for his keep. Now he could buy decent clothing and a horse and return to his home in a few weeks instead of months or years. He could return looking like the gentleman who had ridden away so many years ago, too, not like some louse-infested beggar.
And there might be even more treasure yet to be found. Picking up the silvery egg, he found it to be heavy. He shook it by his ear, but nothing rattled, although there was a low-pitched buzzing and ticking coming from somewhere inside it. Could the silver egg house the works of some kind of clock? And was the metal skin truly of silver? It did have the appearance, but not the feel; it felt more like some kind of glass. Nor did there appear to be any way of opening the thing; there were no traces of a seam anywhere on it.
Simon sat back and thought. If he did manage to break into the ovoid by main force, he might well smash or at least damage whatever was inside buzzing and ticking. But then, he had more than enough gold and silver coins to take him back to his Sussex shire farm in style, so why worry about damaging some treasure so singular that he might not dare to try to sell it, anyway, for fear of his life, since he was still half convinced that his find was a royal treasure repository of some kind. Of course, he could merely take those objects he could easily use and leave the rest, perhaps even close up the coffin that was not a coffin and return it to its niche in the wall. He could do that, but then he never would know just what the silvery-glassy egg-shaped casket contained.
Simon’s curiosity got the best of him. Lifting the smooth egg from out the coffin, he placed it on the stone step beside him and began to tap on it with his oaken cudgel, increasing the force of his blows only gradually, since he expected the thing to soon shatter. But it did no such thing, so he stood up, took a two-handed grip on the cudgel, and swung it down with all his might, as he might have swung a maul.