Looking for the King. David C. Downing

at Tom, as if he were supposed to answer for all his countrymen. Tom decided the better part of discretion lay in evasion. “Not speaking for myself,” he said, “but a lot of Americans can’t figure out what we were doing over here in the last war. They’re quoting George Washington about avoiding entangling alliances.”

      Durham took a step forward, as if he’d heard fighting words.

      “Halt!” said Huffman to Durham in a tone of command, holding his hand straight out. Then he added in a soothing tone. “Come, come, Mr. Durham. We’re all friends here. Mr. McCord isn’t a diplomat or a soldier. He’s over here writing a book.”

      Durham stepped back into the doorway. Gesturing toward the Metallascope, he said, “That don’t look like a typewriter to me. More a wireless transmitter.”

      “It’s a metal detector,” explained Huffman casually. “Mr. McCord thinks it might help him locate an underground chamber at one of the Arthurian sites he’s visiting.”

      Durham’s eyes widened. “Oh, he does, does he? And what gave him that idea?” Huffman and Durham both looked at Tom, as if he’d have to answer that one for himself.

      “It’s an open secret,” said Tom. “There’s supposed to be a crypt below Cadbury Castle, that old hill-fort not far from here. Some people think that’s the real Camelot. And everywhere I go, there’s some old fellow in a pub telling me about a buried tunnel or a cache of Celtic weapons and jewelry.”

      “Is that what you’ve been doing?” asked Huffman. “Questioning the locals?”

      Raising himself to his full six feet in height, Tom dropped his pack to the ground and gripped his Metallascope with both hands. “No more questions,” he said. “I’m not looking for any trouble here,” he said. “But I can take care of myself if I have to.”

      Huffman made a downward sweep of the hand, as if trying to calm everyone down. “No need for that kind of talk,” he said calmly. Durham just grinned and patted something underneath his jacket.

      “Let me say this one last time,” said Tom with his jaw clenched. “My name is Tom McCord. I’m an American citizen over here researching a book. I have the papers back in my room to prove it. So if this gentleman would just let me by—” Tom took a step toward the door, and Durham glanced at Huffman, as if seeking instructions. Instead of looking at either of them directly, Huffman took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Tom. Tom shook his head, and Huffman took out a lighter, lit up, and blew out a gray puff of smoke into the dusty air. “Well, that’s an admirable quest, Mr. McCord,” he said casually. “Sailing clear across the Atlantic—dodging U-boats all the way, I shouldn’t wonder—looking for the king. That’s a fine cover.”

      “Cover for what?” said Tom. “I don’t understand.”

      Huffman threw his cigarette down and ground it under his shoe. “Oh come now, Mr. McCord, let’s drop the charade. As long as we’re in this quiet little chapel, don’t you think it would be a fine place for confession?” Tom backed toward the wall and gripped the metal detector like a baseball bat. “It’s not a chapel, it’s the abbot’s kitchen,” he explained between clinched teeth. “The peaked roof is to let smoke out. Any student of archeology would know that.”

      Durham took a step toward Tom, but Huffman signaled for him to stand still.

      “I stand corrected,” he said. “But we know who you are and we know what you’re looking for. And I think you know who we are.”

      “I already told you who I am,” said Tom. “And I have no idea who you are. Though I’ve ruled out the tourist board.” A little grin flickered across Huffman’s face. But then he said slowly and sternly, “This isn’t a game, son.”

      Let’s find out who he really is,” said Durham, stepping out of the doorway and reaching for the pack at Tom’s feet. Tom pointed the metal detector straight ahead, like a lance, and turned up the dial on the box until it made a distinct hum. “Keep your distance,” said Tom. “That is, if you ever hope to have children!” Durham froze and then took several steps back, pulling his jacket down tight in front of him. Huffman laughed out loud, the sounds reverberating throughout the small enclosure. “He’s bluffing, you idiot!” said Huffman.

      Tom scooped up his pack and ran toward the entrance. Durham made a quick lunge at him, grabbing hold of Tom’s jacket. Not having a free hand, Tom tried to stomp on Durham’s foot but missed.

      “Let him go, Durham, let him go,” Tom heard over his shoulder. Breathing heavily, Durham thrust his face about an inch away from Tom’s, glared at him eyeball to eyeball, then let go of his jacket and walked back to Huffman’s side. Tom clutched the pack and the metal detector to his chest, and caught the welcome sight of green grass and blue sky just over his shoulder. He backed out of the room, seeing the forms of the two men still standing near the doorway.

      “Just one more word?” said Huffman, with the same forced politeness he had used when the conversation began. Tom knew it would be wiser to just keep walking, but he wanted to show them, and maybe himself, that he was no coward. So he stood in the doorway, his back to the sun, and glared at the two figures standing in the dim light.

      “Maybe you really are who you say you are,” said Huffman.

      “And maybe you’re as thick as you seem to be,” added Durham.

      Even in the dusky light, Tom could see Huffman cast a withering glance at his stocky partner—or minion. “One last piece of advice,” said Huffman. “Even if you find what you’re looking for, you may discover it’s not worth the price.”

      Tom thought this over this a moment and then replied, “That’s true of most things in life, isn’t it?” Huffman grinned and nodded his head, then, made a wave of his hand, as if to say, Be off with you.

      “Auf wiedersehen,” Tom heard behind him. “We’ll see you again.” He walked hastily away from the stone kitchen, toward a guard booth he’d seen when he entered the grounds a few hours before. His heart was thumping in his chest, partly for the sheer joy of being outside in the open air, safe and free and surrounded by ordinary people just enjoying the day. But there was also anger and fear in that beating heart. Who were these men and what did they want? How dare they treat him that way? And how dare he let them? Tom had visions of taking on both of them, and leaving them on the ground writhing in pain. But that sort of thing seemed to work better in movies than in real life. Tom glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed him. His stride had almost become a run, and he forced himself to slow down to a brisk walk.

      When he got to the entrance to the abbey grounds, there was no one in the guard booth, but there were plenty of people coming and going, so he felt safe enough. What a relief and a pleasure it was just to see a little red-cheeked girl reaching up with stubby fingers to grab onto her mother’s hand. Or to watch a white-haired man and his frail wife standing close together to admire the pink wildflowers growing on top of a stone wall.

      Tom sat on the lawn and laid down his pack and his Metallascope. He started to disconnect the wires, but it took a few tries because his hands were still trembling. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and carefully unhooked the wires, coiled them up and put them into the pack. Then he removed the disk at the end and unscrewed the sections of pipe. It was good to have something to do with his hands, something he didn’t have to think about.

      The more he relaxed, the more the whole incident seemed almost farcical to him. Here he was trying to write a book about King Arthur, and those thugs acted like he held the fate of the world in his hands. What was it they thought he was after? If Huffman’s intent was to quench Tom’s curiosity, then he had mistaken his man. An hour ago, Tom would have been thrilled to find a Roman coin or a centuries-old shoe buckle. But now the question that blazed in his brain was, What should he be looking for?

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