Death in the Ruins: Kydon Chronicles Book 3

Chapter One
England
September 1945
Kydon Schmidt, in his hotel room in London, looked out of the window for the third time. Habit. A holdover from the days behind German lines as an agent, but he wasn't spying for the British or the Americans at the moment.
He was about to begin a treasure hunt for Roman relics and the thought made him uneasy. The last such hunt--he'd been forced into it--left dead men, and he didn't want to face that again. He had a choice with this job, he thought, as he looked out at the street. The same two people. Now, if he were spying… .
The tall fellow opposite the hotel and about to cross the street had been at Barclay's Bank when Kydon was there earlier. Shouldn't be the Gestapo, the war in Europe had been over for four months. But something about the man brought back memories of a small town in Germany a few weeks before the end of the war.
And the woman? She was perhaps in her mid-sixties, and was at the curb with a large shopping bag, an umbrella hanging on her wrist by a thick curved handle. She had been in the lounge when he left for the bank.
He must stop thinking like an agent. These people were ordinary people. He wasn't on a mission in enemy territory, and no one was in danger.
He put on his coat and went down to the lobby. As he made a phone call, the older woman was seated in one of the big leather chairs, too far away to hear his brief, "I'll meet you in twenty minutes." Kydon rang off and started for the street door. The woman gathered her parcels and went to the lift. The tall man was across the lounge at a table strewn with newspapers, idly turning pages, when Kydon walked out of Alderwood's Hotel.
Three blocks away, as Kydon skirted a pile of rubble from a bombed building, he saw the tall man behind him. Coincidence surely. It's peacetime, the war is over.
Kydon sipped his whiskey and splash. It was cozy in the corner of the pub by a window where he could look out on the rain-washed street. At six feet three inches, he could see over the curtain covering the lower half of the steamy window. He could not see the bombed, burned buildings farther along the street. The building opposite must had been spared a bomb during the raids, it looked complete.
People passed with umbrellas shimmering from the light rain and among them was Harry Seton in an old Burberry, his graying hair under a fedora. Harry came in, slapped coins on the bar, and ordered a pint from the woman at the taps. As he lifted his ale, he saw Kydon and went to him.
"Hullo, Schmidt. I didn't mind closing the shop. One poor old soul brought in a badly dented silver tankard to sell. She found it in her bombed out house, and I gave her a couple quid. She needed it." Harry dug in a pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and handed it to Kydon. "We may not get full price but Mallory's keen to see it."
Kydon glanced at the paper, murmured, "Nice address," and shoved it into a pocket. "What's this about Roman relics?"
"He thinks he knows where some can be found. He's collected Greek and Roman pieces for years." Harry took off his hat and smoothed his hair. "He knows your code name."
Tension bubbled up. "What did you tell him?"
"Pretended I didn't know anything." Harry looked up at the young blond. "He said he had connections with Whitehall. If it hadn't been for me meeting you at that damned prison camp--"
"What did you tell him about the pitcher?"
"The truth as I know it, an impoverished aristocrat in France was selling family heirlooms and we're merely go-betweens." Harry took out a cigarette and a match. "You have an appointment for nine in the morning. You can use my car."
"Thanks, Harry." Kydon sipped his whiskey and soda.
"I'm betting he'll offer five and that's a good price." Harry nursed his pint of ale. "How's your father?"
"I hope he'll be digging in Egypt soon."
"I see. Jolly good."
Kydon wanted to say, No, you don't see, Harry, you have no idea of what I did, what I had to do because of a bastard in Washington, so my father can be free to work on his own. But am I free yet? And what does Edwin Mallory really want with me? Kydon said nothing of that. He said, "Harry, will you have supper with me?"
Lines crinkled around his eyes as Harry grinned. "How did you find this Frenchman who managed to hide his collection of ancient and medieval pieces?"
"By accident." Kydon moved to one of the tables.The landlord told them what was available, rarebit or mutton stew. Harry drained his pint and went to the bar for fresh drinks.
As the food was served, Harry said, "Mallory's cousin by marriage has a fine Greek marble of Apollo. He'll ask you to spy out where it came from, is my guess."
The past wouldn't leave him alone as Kydon listened to Harry Seton talk. During the war, Kydon had joined MI6 and, using the code name Apollo, worked for the French Resistance and the OSS. His tall blond looks made him a perfect Aryan to be cast as Nazi officers or soldiers. When the war ended, he was twenty-seven years old, he planned to use his share of the Gervaise Hoard to finance his archeological work and that of his father.
So Edwin Mallory knew his MI6 code name, but Mallory could know nothing about the Chateau D'Ancienne, the castle Bellemir, or the cave beneath it which once held the Gervaise Hoard.
Kydon would know in the morning what the man wanted.

The sun was shining weakly the next morning when Kydon rang the bell of the house in St. John's Wood. The door opened. A tall woman in her mid-twenties with ash-blonde hair looked at him expectantly.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Edwin Mallory. I'm Kydon Schmidt."
"Do come in. I'm Pamela Mallory." She looked him over and added, "His daughter. You sound American. I was expecting someone a bit more Teutonic."
"I could sing some Wagner but I'm not in my best voice."
"At least you have a sense of humor. This way."
Edwin Mallory rose from his heavy walnut Victorian desk and held out his hand. "Schmidt, I appreciate your coming so promptly. Seton says it's very good." He offered a chair.
Kydon opened his case and took out an object wrapped in dark velvet. He unwrapped it and held out a small silver ewer with moonstones and amethysts set in a raised band around the bulbous belly of the piece. "Twelfth Century and in very fine condition."
Mallory took the pitcher and went to the window. The light on his hair made it as silvery as the pitcher. "Wonderful. Where did it come from?"
Kydon felt tension in his neck. "The eastern Mediterranean area. Byzantium probably."
Mallory ran his fingers over the satiny surface. "Perfect, as if it simply sat in a cupboard all these centuries." He came back to the desk and placed the ewer carefully before he sat down. He touched it. "Seton gave me a price," he said and opened a drawer to take out a leather covered book. "I'm a bit hard up at the moment. I can't afford fifty-five hundred but I can pay five thousand. Would the owner agree to it?"
Kydon thought a moment then said, "Yes, five thousand will do."
"Payable to you?"
"To Harry Seton. He represents the owner, I'm only the messenger."
Mallory wrote the check and handed it to Kydon. "You aren't working now?"
Kydon put the check in his jacket pocket. "I'm here to see a former professor at Oxford University. I took classes with him before the war."
"You were at Oxford?" Mallory didn't hide his surprise. "That doesn't hurt anything, you know." Both men laughed and then Mallory said, "Schmidt, I'd like to hire you."
"So I understand.. Something archeological since that's my field."
Edwin Mallory stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Have you heard of the Eastham Apollo? Shan't be surprised if you haven't, not publicized. One article in Country Life years ago."
"Harry mentioned it."
"My cousin Maud is married to George Eastham. Neither George nor his father ever had it authenticated. You could do it."
"Simple enough, but I had the idea from your message that there was more."
"Roman antiquities. Something's come to light, and since--" Mallory took out his handkerchief. He had a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. "I know of your connection with MI6, I worked for them, nothing like the Underground as you did, but I know of your first job for the Allies before you joined MI6, about the search for the Gervaise Hoard."
It was like a dash of cold water, the first time anyone had mentioned it to him. If there were more questions, the OSS would have asked them long ago, hunted him down to ask. No one knew but the baron, Val, the men who were there. What could Mallory know? Not what von Steyr and I actually found in the caverns under Castle Bellemir, and certainly not what we did with it.