The Templar's Quest Part 4

So far, so good.

'Now, how about giving me the French word for exit.'

Actually managing to look green around the gills, Kate looked up and croaked, 'Sortie.'

'Sortie! Sortie! ' he next hollered.

The mustachioed man rushed over and, in a flurry of unintelligible French, grabbed Kate's other arm, urging them to move at an even faster clip towards a set of double doors at the rear of the kitchen. Obviously he didn't want to mop up after a sick woman.

Their French escort shoved the doors wide open just before he shoved Finn and Kate across the threshold and on to a concrete loading dock. The door slammed shut behind them.

Coming out from a climate-controlled environment, the humid night air hit both of them like a slap in the face.

Kate peered from side to side. 'Okay, now what?'

'I'm working on it.' Taking hold of her elbow, Finn ushered his companion down the flight of concrete steps that led to an asphalt parking area.

'I suggest that we walk around to the front gate. That is, after all, how we arrived at the emba.s.sy.'

Finn shook his head, putting the kibosh on her suggestion. 'We can't risk it. For all we know, Jutier's body has already been discovered. That makes the emba.s.sy a crime scene and everyone inside the emba.s.sy a potential suspect. Trust me, no one will be allowed to exit through the front gate until they've been cleared by the police.'

A crease appeared between Kate's brows. 'Bringing me right back to my original question ... now what?'

He gestured to the three purple and gold catering trucks parked a few feet from the loading dock. 'a.s.suming one of these bad boys has a key in the ignition, we're going for a ride in a big purple truck.'

Kate baulked, coming to a complete standstill. 'Are you seriously suggesting that we steal a catering truck?'

'I prefer the word "borrow".'

'Beg, borrow or steal, it's all the same thing we would be taking a vehicle that doesn't belong to us. And what about my car? We just can't leave it parked all night on Reservoir Road.'

'Sure we can. We'll pick up your Toyota first thing in the morning.'

Like most of the guests at the party, they'd had to park outside the emba.s.sy complex on the public street adjacent to the front gate.

Tuning out the barrage of dire scenarios that Kate proceeded to enumerate, Finn slid open the driver's-side door of the first truck. He leaned his upper body inside and peered at the dashboard.

No keys.

He slammed the door shut and jogged over to the next truck.

Catching sight of a silver key protruding from the ignition, he offered up a thankful prayer. 'Okay, this one's got a key. Hurry up and jump in.'

'I really don't think we should '

'Just do it!' Regretting the harsh tone, he backtracked. 'Don't worry. We'll be out of here in a jiff.'

Her face scrunched in a leery frown, Kate scrambled into the pa.s.senger seat. Finn handed her the notebook computer for safekeeping. He then started the engine, flipped on the headlights and maneouvered the vehicle on to the nearby delivery access road that led to the entrance of the emba.s.sy compound.

Two hundred metres from the front gate, he glanced in the wing mirror. A dark-coloured Mercedes Benz SUV was riding their tail. When the vehicle gunned its engine menacingly, Finn knew it wasn't an impatient party guest. He figured it was either emba.s.sy security or an SUV full of gun-toting, tattooed Frenchmen.

'What's wrong?' Kate asked anxiously.

There being no time to reply and besides, Finn knew she wouldn't much care for the answer he pushed the accelerator to the floor.

At the main gate a uniformed guard motioned furiously for them to stop.

'Slow down!' Kate screamed. 'There's a guard up ahead!'

Finn tuned her out.

Seeing the uniformed guard pull a pistol from his holster and go into a crouched shooter's stance, Finn flipped on his high beams. Blinded by the glaring light, the armed guard dropped his weapon and dived to safety seconds before the catering truck crashed through the gate.

The ensuing scream from his co-pilot nearly pierced Finn's eardrum.

'Oh, my G.o.d! Have you lost your mind?'

'Hold on!' he yelled, yanking on the steering wheel, the catering truck going up on two wheels as they made the left-hand turn on to Reservoir Road.

In the back of the truck, pots and pans clanged together loudly.

Although they'd managed to exit the emba.s.sy compound, a quick glance in the mirror verified what Finn already suspected the Mercedes was still d.o.g.g.i.ng them. An easy enough feat since the truck's top speed was only fifty m.p.h. a speed he wouldn't be able to maintain much longer. Up ahead were the congested streets of Georgetown.

'What's the first one-way cross street?' he hollered at Kate. Since she lived in the area, he hoped she might know.

One hand braced on the pa.s.senger door, the other clutching the notebook computer to her chest, she shook her head. 'I'm not sure. Maybe thirty-fourth street.'

'One-way going in which direction?'

'Um, south ... I think.'

Finn eyeballed the pa.s.sing street signs. 37th ... 36th ... 35th ...

34th Street.

About to risk everything on a 'maybe' and an 'I think', Finn made a sharp left-hand turn putting the truck on a one-way street heading in the wrong direction. Overshooting the turn, the truck jumped the curve, careening through a neatly clipped hedge. Again, Finn yanked on the steering wheel, the truck wildly fishtailing from side to side.

As they mowed through the hedge, he heard Kate scream at the top of her lungs. 'Finn! Watch out for the '

Fire hydrant.

Knowing it was a done deal, Finn threw out his right arm, pinning Kate to the pa.s.senger seat as the catering truck ploughed into the hydrant.

9.

Sixth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, Paris, France The opening gambit had been played, a p.a.w.n sacrificed.

More resigned than shocked to learn that Fabius Jutier had died by his own hand, Ivo Uhlemann hung up the telephone. The latest turn of events could only mean one of two things either Sergeant McGuire had got too close to the truth or Fabius feared that he might capitulate if the situation turned violent.

Dare il gambetto.

A Spanish priest in the sixteenth century coined the phrase to refer to an opening chess move. Roughly translated, it meant 'putting a leg forward to trip someone'. However, the American had proved himself surprisingly nimble, managing to sidestep their trap.

But to what end?

Lost in thought, Ivo walked over and closed the green velvet drapes; at night, Paris, annoyingly, became the city of headlights. That done, he seated himself at his desk, the Rococo furniture at odds with the modern lines of the laptop computer and wireless printer. The old and the new. The perennial clash as each battled the other for supremacy.

Ready to commence his weekly game of chess, Ivo signed on to the computer site using the tongue-in-cheek moniker 'German Knight'. His opponent, 'Java King', was already online. They played each Tuesday at twelve a.m., insomniacs, the both of them. Since there was nothing that he could personally do about the situation in Was.h.i.+ngton, other than issue new orders, he saw no reason to cancel the weekly bout.

Playing white, Ivo moved his p.a.w.n to E4. The French Opening. A fitting tribute to his friend and colleague, Fabius Jutier.

The Cultural Minister had been trained they had all been trained to swallow a cyanide tablet rather than surrender to the enemy. No different to what many SS officers had been forced to do at the close of the Second World War, the Reich in flames, the Allied army on a bloodthirsty manhunt.

Indeed, a brave man must always be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good.

Ivo glanced at the computer screen. It had taken but a few moments for Java King to position his p.a.w.n at E6; the first move of what he hoped would prove a ferocious battle. Play. Counter-play. Attack. The weekly match kept his 76-year-old brain sharp; a weak mind was endemic to the lackl.u.s.tre horde. His father, the noted physicist Friedrich Uhlemann, had been convinced that the ma.s.s of men, possessed of middling intelligence, required a guiding hand. Only then could such men meaningfully contribute to society.

As with all of the Seven's founding members, Friedrich had been a brilliant scholar. Created in 1940 by the superintendent of the Schutzstaffel, Heinrich Himmler, the unit was envisioned as a seven-man think tank. Its members culled from the best universities in Gottingen, Vienna and Paris, the Seven bridged the divide between the humanities and the sciences. During the 1940s, interdisciplinary research had been a radical concept. In fact, the Ahnenerbe, the academic branch of the SS, had been subdivided into fifty different sections, each focused on a single narrow field of study.

With a click of the computer mouse, Ivo positioned his knight at C3, the diagonal now open.

As he waited for Java King to make the next move, he opened another tab on the computer, pleased to see that the two dossiers he'd ordered had been forwarded. He gave the photograph of Katsumi Rosamund Bauer a cursory glance before scanning the particulars of her life.

Hmm, a most interesting background.

Thirty-nine years of age, Katsumi Bauer had a doctorate in cultural anthropology and, until two years ago, had been a professor at Johns Hopkins University. According to the genealogy chart that a family member had obligingly posted online, the Bauer family emigrated to the American Colonies in 1710, part of a large contingent of Palatine German farmers who settled in New York. Her maternal line, which included several generations of samurai, arrived in California in the early twentieth century. Aiko, her mother, was a curator at the Pacific Asia Museum; father Alfred taught astrophysics at CalTech. As he read that, Ivo chuckled. How ironic.

He pulled up the second dossier.

'Hmm, it would seem that our commando hails from a less stellar background,' he murmured, again chuckling, amused by the pun. The parents, Patrick and Fiona McGuire, moved to Boston in 1972 from Northern Ireland. Typical of working-cla.s.s Irish Catholics, the mother had been a homemaker, the father a day labourer until his untimely death in 1988. Perhaps it was bred into them. Whatever the reason, the Irish had a long history of being a subjugated people, always serving one master or another.

Ivo quickly skimmed the next few paragraphs, eyes opening wide on reading that McGuire's twin brother, Mychal, was a member of Boston's notorious Irish mob.

Seventy years ago, the McGuire brothers would have been a prize catch; German researchers were particularly interested in studying twins. To advance the burgeoning field of eugenics, all test subjects were thoroughly photographed. Tissue biopsies were then performed. If male, s.e.m.e.n samples were forcibly collected; if female, gynaecological exams were conducted. Once the tests were completed, the subjects were euthanized with a single injection of chloroform to the heart, the collected data used to winnow out society's undesirables.

As he finished reading the dossiers, Ivo clicked on the second computer tab. At a glance, he could see that his opponent had just moved his bishop to B4.

Well played, Java King. The move threatened Ivo's white knight. While his Tuesday-night opponent tended to be pa.s.sive, overly concerned with losing a major piece, Ivo played a more brazen match.

Again, he wondered at the American's game, unable to determine if the commando was being pa.s.sive or dangerously bold. What did Finn McGuire hope to gain in refusing the Seven's generous monetary offer? And the woman, Katsumi Bauer what role did she play in this recent turn of events?

Given her proud heritage and impressive education, Ivo suspected that he would have enjoyed the pleasure of her company.

A pity that Katsumi Bauer was not long for this world.

10.

The serpent, the Cursed One, fouled the earth.

An orgy of blood, Paradise lost.

Kill the firstborn then burn in h.e.l.l.

The serpent, the Cursed One, all covered in 'Pathetic.'

The a.s.sa.s.sin known as the Dark Angel disabled the iPhone in mid-song, bored with the shrieking vocals and discordant rhythm of the Black Metal music. Nothing but a pack of alienated young white men, their primal screams evoking a violent fantasy world.

So much better to live the fantasy.

Hitching a leather-clad hip against the wrought-iron railing, the a.s.sa.s.sin scrutinized the little green brick house on the other side of the walkway. The cream-coloured shutters looked newly painted, the bra.s.s door knocker was shaped like a pineapple, and the window boxes on the first floor brimmed with pink pansies. Too trite for words. Overlooking a placid stretch of ca.n.a.l, the row of brightly painted residences was more reminiscent of Amsterdam than Was.h.i.+ngton.

Oh, to be in Amsterdam on a hot, muggy night. With the lurid fluorescent lights and writhing bodies behind plate-gla.s.s windows. A red-light district second to none. A true outpost of the erotic frontier. Raw, raunchy and real. What's your pleasure, bebe?

Annoyed to suddenly hear a tinny buzz, the a.s.sa.s.sin glanced down. It only took a few seconds for the intrepid mosquito to land on a patch of bare skin, oblivious to its fate. Unaware that the hand of G.o.d was two feet away, ready to strike.

How long should I let it live?

'Hmm ... I think that's long enough.'

Intrigued by the sight of smeared blood and smashed wings, the a.s.sa.s.sin softly cackled. Do give my regards to Fabius Jutier. Who, no doubt, went to his grave snivelling and sobbing, the Frenchman having been an effeminate weakling.

Not like the two Delta Force commandoes. Fine specimens, the both of them. Real men, as the Americans are fond of saying. All bunched muscles, tightened sinews, eyes burning bright with hatred. Fighting against the restraints with every ounce of power in their big, muscular bodies. Right to the bittersweet end.

Such a shame that stolen pleasures never last long enough.

'But the night is still young.'

Smiling in antic.i.p.ation, the a.s.sa.s.sin glanced at the address scrawled on a crumpled sheet of paper, verifying the house number.

Time to get to work.

11.