Parallel Lies

By Vincent George Ainley

Rhea is an archaeologist searching for the final resting place of the legendary King Arthur. She is thrown into the murky world of Islamic Fundamentalism and CIA operations that do not officially exist. On the run from killers, the only person she can turn to for help is Danny, the man whose heart she broke over a year ago; but she is desperate. Rhea uncovers the truth about Arthur and the hand that the Church played in almost wiping his existence from all records. She challenges the establishment in pursuit of the truth amongst all the lies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Jan 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370151424

Vincent George Ainley

Vincent George Ainley is a happy-go-lucky father of four grown-up kids and recently married. He lives near where the Suffolk county line meets Norfolk along the east coast and manages to write novels as a hobby whilst still holding down full-time work. He spent many years in the British Army and worked as a non-destructive testing technician in the oil and gas industry, both on and offshore. In more recent years, he has also been a shopkeeper and is currently employed as a manager in a newspaper distribution industry.

Book preview

About the author

Vincent George Ainley is a happy-go-lucky father of four grown-up kids and recently married. He lives near where the Suffolk county line meets Norfolk along the east coast and manages to write novels as a hobby whilst still holding down full-time work.

He spent many years in the British Army and worked as a non-destructive testing technician in the oil and gas industry, both on and offshore. In more recent years, he has also been a shopkeeper and is currently employed as a manager in a newspaper distribution industry.

Dedication

I would like to take this opportunity to dedicate this book to my darling Lee Karen Ainley, who has always been close by with an idea or a cup of coffee.

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PARALLEL LIES

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Vincent George Ainley

The right of Vincent George Ainley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

PARALLEL LIES

available from the British Library.

www.austinmacauley.com

PARALLEL LIES

ISBN 9781788482820 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788484527 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781788484534 (E-Book)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

First Published in 2018

AustinMacauley

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

Acknowledgments

The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings.

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Burgundy, September 13th 443AD

Light seeped through the cold, early morning mist, the kind of cold that sat upon a man’s chest and dug its fingers deep into his lungs. As Riothamus climbed the steep bank towards the fields of wheat beyond, he listened to how quietly his men were disembarking from their vessels. Wordlessly they toiled, though not without sound; twelve thousand pairs of leather-soled feet could not be kept totally silent marching up a shale embankment. They had brought some horses with them too and even they could feel the need for quietness; few snickered.

The Romans were to have been there already, a Legate was to have met his landing party, but no one had showed. Riothamus, which translated from the Breton tongue as ‘Highest King’, had gathered his army of Britons and crossed the channel in response to the pleas of Sidonius; the Roman Commander in Gaul, despite the latter’s failure to act in kind. The Britons had been fighting the encroaching Saxons for many years ever since Vortigern had invited them over to help fight the Scots and Picts, in the North.

Without warning, arrows came at them through the fog-laden air. Some broke on impact as they struck the pebbled shoreline, some made a ‘thunk’ sound as they pierced heavy shields, others made men scream. Caught out in the open with no chance of retreat back to the boats, Riothamus assessed the situation in a heartbeat and at the top of his voice, ordered his men to charge up the beach and engage their tormentors.

The pace was agonisingly slow. Men fell to the right and left of him, but he charged onwards and carried the fight to the enemy – the Visigoths – the same foe that had been plaguing the Roman Legions, running them ragged and slaughtering them in hundreds with each engagement.

Riothamus’ sword swung high and wide, splitting the shield of an enemy warrior and scoring a gouge into his chest. Blood splattered onto the warrior king’s face, as he slashed and chopped at those who sought to trap him and his army with his back to the river.

The battle was cruel and uncompromising, men screamed in agony and wept for their mothers, others revelled in the carnage. After two hours of fierce fighting, the Britons had split the enemy in half and mopped up the southern flank, enabling them to break out for the lush-green country beyond. The trap had failed, but in turning the tide, the Britons had lost many souls; too many. After initial success alongside their allies: the Franks, Romans and Bergundians, Riothamus responded to a letter from Sidonius asking for him to come to the aid of Rome and meet the Visigoths in battle once more. He marched his men up the Loire valley and awaited the arrival of the Romans, whom they were aiding.

The Romans never showed up and the High King fumed and cussed at the ineptitude the Roman Commander had shown. At least, he hoped it was his ineptitude and not a deliberate trap by the Church; they had no love for Pelagians and would not stop at murder to rid Christendom of the British heresy. No wonder Rome was in decline when the Church chose the concept of original sin over man’s ability to choose for himself the path of good over evil.

Euric, King of the Visigoths, was advised to strike at the Britons while they were at half strength and the ensuing battle took a tremendous toll on Riothamus’ army, but they retreated in good order and took shelter in a small town called Aballo. It was a beautiful valley, with the town almost an island due to flooding and there, beside the College de Druid (a Celtic school), there was a Roman fort nearby and Riothamus sent word, ending their alliance. On the banks of the River Cure stood Les Fountains Salees, an ancient salt spa maintained by nine beautiful Celtic maidens and the High King encouraged his wounded to engage in their healing powers – more of this later.

Despite their heavy losses, his men showed no lack of faith in their lord and those who received them within friendly lands showed no enmity. Riothamus was feted and cheered as a warrior for his success at escaping the ambush set for him and his men, and for fighting their way across the land to safety without help.

He and his much-reduced army marched west to Brittany and remained there for a couple of years, engaging with the Visigoths and knocking them back at each and every opportunity. When he was sure the immediate threat to his lands was significantly reduced, he returned across the channel and re-engaged with the Saxon encroachments. He had learned much while fighting the Visigoths and put his newly acquired strategies to good use. Beside him, weighted down by heavy shield and sword, was his son, Uther.1

Footnote

(Correspondence with Sidonius Apollinaris: ‘Getica’ History of the Goths by Jordanes)

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Chapter One

Rhea

Paris, September 13th, 2014

Rhea Dupont was out jogging along the banks of the river Seine in Paris. She was listening to music on her iPod, a collection of tracks by Jon and Vangelis – music to run to. She was of average height at five feet six inches, slim and athletic build with long, fair hair, highlighted and tied back in a girlish ponytail. The ponytail bobbed and swayed in time with her pace and the beat of the music between her ears.

She was passing by some stalls, booksellers with their green boxes set up along the embankment, and heading towards the Louvre palace. This sprawling complex of buildings served as a royal palace since the 1300s and the museum began life as the private royal art collection. She turned left through the palace’s front entrance and came into the large square courtyard. With few tourists about this early in the morning, she lengthened her stride slightly and swiftly passed through the next archway, where she could see ahead the sparkling glass pyramid of the museum.

Rhea loved Paris. She had studied her Masters in Sub-Roman Britain: History and Legend in Norwich at the UEA, but had since followed it up with a Doctorate at the Sorbonne in the Historical Archaeology of Manuscripts and Brythonic languages. She spoke French fluently plus a little German, having spent a large part of her childhood following her aunt and uncle around; her uncle had been in the RAF and together they had raised her. She loved everything French: the Café lifestyle, the people, the art and history. Her favourite part of the country was the Brittany coast nearby, where her aunt and uncle lived and stayed with them at each and every opportunity. They had a vineyard on the south, facing slopes on the outskirts of Rennes in a small hameau called Parthenay de Bretagne.

Rhea was in good spirits. She was busy these days between writing a book on popular historical legend and helping out on French archaeological projects. She ran on, passing beneath the older Arc de Triomphe and towards the Tuileries Gardens, a public park; negotiating the statues, cafes and flowers. She wore a charcoal vest top over a sports bra, with white shorts and a comfortable pair of Asics Patriot running shoes. Rhea ran daily, sometimes twice. It was her thinking place, the steady beat of footfall, deep regular breaths combined with the techniques she picked up from a runners group, the Chi of running: relaxing, correct posture and alignment, landing with a mid-foot strike, gravity-assisted forward lean, engaging core strength for propulsion and connecting the mind and body to prevent injury. Rhea was serious about her running; it was how she achieved her goal of moksha, her special place.

This morning, unlike her usual circuit of eight kilometres, Rhea was detouring to the offices of a friend and colleague, Samir Haddad, to collect some translation work he had been doing for her Doctorate thesis. Samir was of French-Algerian descent and an expert in ancient languages. He had been checking Rhea’s interpretation of an old Breton manuscript and had texted her that he had completed it. Her altered route would now take her along Boulevard du Palais, nearby the famous Notre Dame and thence to Samir’s place of business. He was a nice man, possessing a gentle nature and she knew he would not mind her turning up to collect the pen drive dressed as she was, still in her running attire. At least, he would never be so rude as to allay such feelings to a woman, she mused.

The building was ornate, pre-Napoleon and had once been an annex for Notre Dame Hospital during the Great War. A receptionist frowned at Rhea as she negotiated the lift doors and the passengers alighting. It was only three floors up but she didn’t want to be chased by the snooty receptionist and have to explain herself. The ride up was swift and she found herself in the foyer of Samir’s business empire, such as it was. The double door – indeed the whole wall – was inch-thick glass panelling, slightly smoked for effect. She passed through into the interior, office cubicles to her left and right were partitioned by felted-board dividers. All the chairs and desks were empty, all of those she could see at least. At the far side of the open planned, thickly carpeted space, she saw Samir’s enclosed office. Its glass walls were opaque, she could not see inside. As she reached for the door handle and entered, she came face-to-face with a scene of utter horror.

The room was occupied. There were four individuals: three standing and momentarily looking in her direction, and one seated. The three standing were each dressed in sharp business suits, possibly Italian, she briefly assumed. The person seated – actually, tied to the seat – was Samir. His face was bloodied, eyes puffed and there was what looked like vomit down his front. Rhea had no idea what was going on and no intention of finding out just then. In one swift movement, she about-turned and sprinted back the way she had come.

That’s her! She heard someone cry out behind her as she fled the bloody scene. Jones, Cannon – get her! added the voice, probably the one in the middle, Rhea assumed and the elder of the three, And get the drive!

She reached the lift but knew she would not have time to wait for the doors to open before her pursuers caught up. She dipped left and made for the emergency stairs and as she did so, shots were fired. Not at her apparently, which left only – Samir.

Oh no, Rhea muttered under her breath. She took the stairs at a breakneck speed, leaping them three and four at a time whilst holding onto the rail. She slid, leapt and scrambled her way down. She could hear the two men chasing her above, noisily making equally hasty progress after her. They were cussing and cursing too, making no attempt to hide their malicious intent. After what seemed like a long time, but was actually brief seconds, Rhea burst into the ground level foyer and sprinted for the door leading to the street. As she passed the snooty receptionist, she saw the woman stand up almost in slow motion and shout something at her; but Rhea was through the door and out onto the pavement before the woman’s words registered with her.

"Stop at once. Stop or I shall call un gendarme!" the woman had yelled at her.

Please do, Rhea mused darkly.

Once outside the building, Rhea believed she could be safe. Neither of the men in pursuit of her had dressed for a chase, at least not for one where they had any hope of catching her. She headed home and as directly as possible; she was no longer jogging now, this morning had turned into a desperate sprint. She crossed from the Île de la Cité, this time to the south and turned right, lengthening her stride along the embankment. A quick glance back towards her pursuers showed they had not given up but were falling behind gradually.

She ran on, passing the slow traffic and the National School of Arts and turning left onto Rue Bonaparte. A couple of hundred metres further on and she was home, a third floor flat above a quaint patisserie. As she reached the door to the stairs leading up to her flat, she looked back for signs of the men chasing her: there was none. Either they had not reached the corner as yet or had not seen her take it and ploughed on past it. She keyed the lock and slipped inside the short hallway leading to the creaky wooded staircase.

As was often the case, the elderly gentleman living on the ground floor, Monsier Buffon, popped his head out of his perpetually open door and greeted her, "Bonjour, jolie fille, vos invites sont partis," old man Buffon did not speak English; he had said, ‘Hello, pretty maid. Your guests have left.’ At these words, Rhea froze and looked up towards the dark first landing. She was panting from her exertion, her legs felt a bit like they were made of jelly, though not from running but from fear. The fear caused by what she had seen. Dust was drifting lazily through a beam of light emanating from a solitary skylight, high up in the roof.

Monsier Buffon continued, Are they not friends of yours? Pardon me, young one, perhaps I should not have allowed them to let themselves into your flat?

The old man’s expression was full of shame.

No, no, Mister Buffon. You were not to know they are not friends of mine, replied Rhea, placing her hand on the kind old man’s arm, Would you mind calling the police for me? They may simply have been burglars, but I believe they may have something to do with an incident I have just been involved in.

The old man assured her that he would indeed call the police, but frowned when he noted she still intended to go upstairs to her flat rather than wait for the authorities to arrive first and check it was actually empty. He told her so and seeing that she was persisting, ducked back into his own room. He cared for Rhea but his concern only stretched so far. It did not warrant putting himself in danger.

Rhea made her way up the tired and warped staircase, noting not for the first time the smell of linseed oil. The floorboards groaned and complained at each footstep, and try as hard as she might, she could not climb any quieter. At the first landing, she passed the flat belonging to an artist, Pierre Lareaux. She had seen his work and found it very pleasing to the eye but noted these days he was spending more and more time engaged in pavement art with his new friend, John Luc. Rhea suspected they may even be lovers and smiled at the thought; Pierre deserved some happiness, artists made little money in modern Paris, unless you had a manager, an agent and a patron.

She continued up the second flight of stairs, leading to the landing where Alice Dervereau and her ten-year-old daughter, Camille, resided. Alice worked in the patisserie downstairs and paid less rent as part of her employment arrangement. Sometimes Camille came upstairs and sat with Rhea, watching her television until Alice finished her shift at the shop. It was nice for Rhea to have her company too.

She moved on, taking the shorter steps up to the topmost floor, where her rooms were, passing underneath the skylight that shone down into the dim stairwell she had just climbed. Her rooms were small as she did not need a large space, but a bonus was the amount of light the set of six dormer windows allowed into them and the glass doors, which opened onto the tiniest of verandas. As she reached out for the door handle, she wondered at her own impatience; why wasn’t she waiting for the police to arrive before checking out her flat? She almost jumped out of her skin just then, as without warning the door opened before her and standing there, with one hand on the door handle and the other on her hip, stood Camille.

You left the door unlocked, she said.

Rhea had laughed at herself, after the shock had eased of course and proceeded to inspect her flat with the care and attention that only a woman can normally give. She took great delight looking after her renovated attic flat, taking time to hunt for the right pieces of furniture to place in it and kept it clean and tidy. All of her furniture was second-hand; the wardrobes, chest of drawers and coffee table having been rubbed down with sandpaper, painted, stencilled and varnished to her own exacting standard, just so. There was a hat stand beside the main door, which she had carried from one side of Paris to the other on the Metro; hanging from it were hats she had bought, just so that it would have something put on it. It had a rail halfway down too, that gave space to put umbrellas, and yes, she bought some of those too.

The police had come after an interminable amount of time had passed. Mister Buffon had shown them the way personally up to Rhea’s flat and stayed while she told them of her encounter at the Samir’s office. The officer taking her statement seemed sincere, as he sat perched on the edge of her settee, cup and saucer in hand full of English tea. His colleague popped out of the flat to inform his superiors over the radio about the scene Rhea had witnessed. When he returned, he asked her if she would not mind coming along with them to their Station, where they could show her some photos of suspects. She acquiesced but declared a need to shower and a change of clothes. The officers agreed to wait downstairs whilst