10. Galahad
Galahad
The Gulfstream climbed through the cloud cover over Michigan.
Arthur’s new toy from his father was the kind of luxury I’d only experienced once before, when Uther—the call sign everyone used for Arthur’s father, despite how much he apparently hated it—sent another jet to pick us up after a particularly distressing night in Berlin.
The seats were all cream-colored leather and could fold down flat to work as beds.
Four oversized seats in the forward cabin, a couch across from a television in the mid-cabin, a cluster of six in the aft cabin, and a private cabin in the back with seating for two.
The cluster was designed around two tables, one on either side of the aisle, with half the chairs facing backward for meetings.
Dark circles clung under Grace’s eyes. She’d finally left the kitchen around two in the morning, but she didn’t look like she’d gotten much sleep. I hadn’t. Too many scenarios kept playing through my mind, especially all the ways this trip could go wrong.
She and I sat in the aft cabin. I was in a single seat on the right, while she’d taken the window seat of the pair on the left. In the forward cabin, Arthur and Merlin sat facing each other in the large seats with a table set up between them.
I’d offered her the window when we got on, figuring she’d enjoy the view.
Big mistake.
She gripped the armrest next to her with such force, her knuckles were almost white.
Each jostle—leaving the ground, the wheels going up, the engine slowing as we climbed—made her fingers clench tighter.
The cheerful woman who had something positive to say about literally everything now looked like she was ready to scream.
A strange tightness settled high in my chest. I leaned across the aisle. “Are you always this nervous when you fly?”
Grace forced a chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze. “I’ve only flown a few times before and never had a window seat.”
“Commercial jets rarely crash, you know.”
She blew out a shaky breath. “At least if we do, I’ll have a great view of my death.”
‘At least.’ There it was again. Spinning every negative into a positive, despite how shitty that positive was. Against my better judgment, I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid into the seat next to her. “If you’re nervous, focus somewhere else.”
“I’m trying to focus on my breathing.” Her nostrils flared with deep breaths. This was going to be a long flight.
“I’d suggest we swap seats, but everything’s a window seat, really.” I patted her hand, encouraging her to let go.
She did, but her fingers latched around mine, and she didn’t look away from the haze of clouds we passed through. She had one hell of a grip, too.
Nice work, Garrett. Now you’re stuck. I cleared my throat and searched for a way to distract her. I raised my volume so the men in the front could hear me. “What are you working on, Arthur?”
“Finalizing our Monaco itinerary.” He handed a tablet to Merlin, whose seat had been the one pivoted to face backward. “Confidential Round Table Security business.”
“And wrapping up a couple of contracts I was on.” Merlin took the tablet, his startlingly blue eyes darting over the screen.
Even with his dark hair and beard, those eyes had stood out during our Middle East deployments.
He’d worn brown contacts on certain missions—a small price to pay for someone whose intelligence skills were unmatched in our unit. “So not only Round Table.”
I groaned. “You caved to Tristan’s idea?”
“It fits.” Arthur smirked at me over his shoulder, telegraphing what would come next: another recruitment attempt disguised as casual conversation. “Galahad.”
Grace pulled her hand away and folded her arms across her chest. “So, um, you’re going with Round Table Security for sure?”
I groaned. “Don’t you start.”
“Tristan told me about it. I think it’s kind of cool.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Why do they call you Galahad?” She finally tore her eyes from the window. “Wasn’t he the purest knight of all? The one who actually found the grail?”
“It’s a stupid nickname John came up with during a mission.
” I waved a hand in Merlin’s direction. Arthur’s call sign had become Arthur.
How inventive. Tristan’s was his middle name.
Lancelot was Lance. Me? I didn’t drink and wasn’t interested in a relationship when we met, so Merlin thought Galahad—the pure one—was funny.
The plane leveled out, and Grace’s shoulders relaxed. “Tristan doesn’t talk a lot about his time with you guys, but he said you protected artifacts?”
“Speaking of which,” Merlin said as he handed the tablet back to Arthur, “I’d like to hear more about any precautions you’ve planned, Grace.”
She smiled, but hesitated, color climbing into her cheeks. Had my warnings sunk in? Did she realize she hadn’t been taking this as seriously as she should have?
“Physical security is my specialty.” Arthur gestured toward the credenza in the mid-cabin where Grace had stowed her handbag. “If you’re carrying an item of this value, we should discuss proper safeguards.”
Maybe Arthur or Merlin could ensure she understood the risks and didn’t push back after we touched down.
They’d keep their voices level and not yell at her.
She’d been right about that last night in the kitchen.
I’d been angry when I showed up at Tristan’s after the initial call, but sometimes anger and strength were all I had to offer.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and inclined my head. “You should show them.”
“I...” Grace glanced at me, then at Arthur, and eased out of her seat. “It’s been in my closet, hidden under my laundry. No one was supposed to know about it.”
“And yet,” I said, retrieving her bag as we walked to the front, “there was a Russian man asking about your grandmother and another man who specifically mentioned the egg.”
Grace pressed her lips together, but she didn’t argue or try to excuse her actions.
“I’ve put out some requests for intel,” said Merlin. “I expect a call back from Jean before we reach London.”
“Good thinking.” I hadn’t seen Jean in five years.
He was our go-to expert during the Legacy operations in Afghanistan.
The archaeologist had guided us through identifying genuine treasures among the fakes planted by insurgents.
His knowledge of ancient gold artifacts had likely saved our lives more than once as we tried to determine which pieces might be a diversion.
Grace took the backward-facing chair in the forward cabin, and I took the one across from her. Her eyebrows rose in my general direction, as though she expected more details about Jean. Chatter wasn’t my strong suit, so I placed Grace’s handbag on the table between her and me and left it at that.
“May I see it?” Arthur asked.
She withdrew the velvet pouch from her purse. She handed it to Arthur, who examined the bag itself before opening the drawstring. He removed the blue egg and studied it for a moment before zeroing in on the tiny stone.
“Press here?” he asked, finger hovering over the catch.
When Grace nodded, Arthur pressed gently.
The egg popped open with a soft click. With care, he lifted the golden yolk and set the shell atop the bag to prevent it from rolling.
Finding the second catch, he opened the yolk as well, revealing the jeweled hen inside.
He arranged all the pieces in a neat row.
I leaned across the aisle to point at the hen. “There’s a nearly invisible seam around the hen’s breast. It probably opens, but there’s no obvious mechanism, and we shouldn’t force it.”
Arthur nodded. “Where did your grandmother get this, Grace?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, watching the egg more than Arthur. “She loved telling stories. She told me everything about her life. At least, I thought she did. This doesn’t fit any of it.”
Merlin said, “No hints at all?”
“None. Except…” Grace pulled out the photograph of her grandmother and handed it to Arthur. “The Russian man who came into the café? This was in his pocket.”
Arthur examined it closely before laying it next to the disassembled egg.
Grace’s grandmother stood in front of a crumbling building, her smile bold despite the destruction surrounding her.
The smile was the same as Grace’s. Her eyes were light, too, even in the photo.
If it had been a color photo, green eyes would have been shining back at me.
Fuck. Why was it always green eyes?
“I’m guessing it was taken in France,” Grace said, “because of the French writing on the sign.”
Arthur slid the photo closer to Merlin. “It looks like Marseille, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re right.” Merlin flipped open his laptop again.
Grace’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“The Nazis destroyed parts of the city in 1943,” Arthur explained, “months before they surrendered the city. The port area was particularly hard hit. This looks like the aftermath of those bombings.”
Grace shook her head. “She said her first trip to France was in the ’70s.”
A notification pinged on Merlin’s laptop. He tapped a few buttons and said, “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Jean. You’re on with Arthur, Galahad, and a client of ours.”
Ours? Since I didn’t work for Arthur, Grace was hardly our client. And since Merlin didn’t officially work with them either, she was exclusively Arthur’s client.
“When a man calls with a mysterious treasure, I answer,” came the old archaeologist’s pronounced French accent. “What do you have for me this time?”
Merlin held the egg’s parts up for the camera. “What do you make of this?”
“Mon Dieu,” breathed Jean. “Let me take a screenshot. That’s not what I think it is, is it?”
“And what do you think it is?” Arthur swiveled Merlin’s laptop so he and I could see the screen.
“Arthur! Galahad!” Jean’s whole face lit up. He was grayer than I remembered, and he’d let his beard fill out. “It’s been too long, my friends!”