He smiled. “Ask.”
“Who are those guys?” I asked, nodding toward the men by the door.
“They are agents.”
“Agents of what?”
“Agents of an organization that you have never heard of, that very few people have heard of, actually. They belong to an agency specifically trained to deal with emergencies such as this one.”
“This is an emergency?”
“More of a crisis. You see, Alfred, what has been lost is very important.”
“You mean the sword?”
He nodded.
“It doesn’t really belong to Arthur Myers, does it?” I asked.
“No.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I tried to tell Uncle Farrell that, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Who is Arthur Myers?” I asked.
“He is many things.”
“You’re answering my questions, but you’re not giving me any answers, Mr. Samson. I thought you were in Europe.”
“My flight just got in.”
He patted my arm again and stood up. He began to pace around the living room, his hands behind his back.
“Who is Arthur Myers?” he said. “I had never heard that name before today. But I know the man. He has gone by many names and many guises in many lands. Bartholomew in England. Vandenburg in Germany. Lutsky in Russia. Who knows what his true name is? To my friends here”—he nodded toward the men by the door—“he is known by his code name, Dragon. The name he used when I first met him, though, years ago, in Paris, was Mogart, so to me he has been and always will be Mogart.”
Mr. Samson gave a little shake of his enormous head and laughed bitterly.
“Mogart! What can I tell you about Mogart? He is many things, and yet nothing. Mercenary, provocateur, assassin, a destroyer and murderer, but I don’t need to tell you that. A lover of darkness. Yes! Of darkness. For if a man may be defined by what he does, you may think of him as simply an agent, Alfred. An agent of darkness.”
His cell phone rang. I jumped a little. I don’t know if it was my jumping or the ringing of the phone, but one of the men by the door jammed his hand inside his coat pocket, then slowly took it out again when Mr. Samson began to talk.
“Yes. . . . When? . . . Are you certain?” He listened for a long time. In the early-morning light his face looked old, with deep shadow-filled creases. I wondered how old Bernard Samson was. I wondered if he was telling me the truth. I wondered what exactly he was telling me.
“Very well,” he said into the phone, and flipped it closed. He sat next to me again.
“I’m afraid I haven’t much time, Alfred. Things are moving very quickly and time is our enemy now. We’ve tapped every resource at our disposal, but he has had time, too much time, to slip through the net. The rest of your questions, quickly.”
“I just want to know what’s so special about this sword; why three guys dressed like monks with black swords tried to kill me for it; and most of all I want to know why my uncle is dead.”
“Your uncle died to send a message, Alfred. To me. To you. To those men you met last night. He died as a warning and a promise that more will die should we oppose Mogart. I’m afraid we can fully trust that message, Alfred: More people will die before this is over.”
“Before what is over? Why don’t you just talk plain to me, Mr. Samson? I’m really tired and I feel really bad. I felt bad from the first about this deal and I tried to talk Uncle Farrell out of it, but he wouldn’t listen, and now I feel really bad.”
He patted my hand, looked at his watch, and then said, “The sword you took from my office, did you notice anything unusual about it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You fought those men with it. Have you ever fought with a sword, Alfred?”
“Not a real one. A play one, when I was a kid.”
“Yet, despite your total lack of expertise, you were able to best three very accomplished swordsmen, were you not?”
“Yes. Who were they? They don’t work for Mr. Myers— or Mogart, or whatever his name is, do they?”
“No.”
“So they work for you.”
“They work for no man, Alfred. They are part of an ancient and secret order, bound by a sacred vow to keep safe the sword until its master comes to claim it. Yes, they should have killed you for refusing to give it to them, but they are not murderers or thieves.”
“No, I guess that would be Mr. Mogart and me.”
“They are knights, Alfred, or at least that’s what we would call them, if there were such things in this dark age.”
“Mr. Samson, are you ever going to tell me what this is all about? I thought you had to go.” I felt like I was shrinking to the size of a pencil lead, which wasn’t a very comfortable feeling for someone my size.
“Long ago, Alfred,” Mr. Samson said. “Long ago there was a man who united the greatest kingdom the world had ever known. This kingdom was not great in lands or armies, but great in the vision it gave humankind, that justice, honor, and truth were within our grasp, not in some world to come, but here, in the world of mortal men. That king departed, but his vision remained. We are the guardians of that vision, for what we guard is the last physical embodiment of it.”
“You mean the sword?”
“The sword is in this world, Alfred, but it is not of this world. Forged before the foundations of the earth, not by mortal hands, it is the True Sword, Alfred, the Sword of Kings. In another time it was known as Caliburn. You may know it by its other name, the sword Excalibur.”
“You’re talking about King Arthur, right?”
“Yes, King Arthur.”
“That’s just a legend, a story, Mr. Samson.”
“I don’t have the time to convince you of anything, Alfred. You held it tonight. In your inexperienced hands, the Sword bested three of the finest swordsmen in the world. Yet that is only a fraction of its power. The Sword of Kings contains the power of heaven itself, Alfred, the power to create as well as to destroy. All the mortal arts of weaponry are powerless against it, but more than this, the will of ordinary men cannot withstand its might.”
I thought of the tall monk stepping aside to let me and Uncle Farrell pass, as I held the Sword, telling him to move. The will of ordinary men cannot withstand its might.