The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4

by Scott Chapman

  He watched the trickle of people as they wandered through the square, lost in the cheerful distraction of people-watching as his mind became a blank. A well-dressed woman with a small dog took a seat at the table next to him. She was engrossed in a telephone conversation and seemed unaware of Sparke, or anything else around her. The dog stood at Sparke's feet, staring at him with a high level of focus.

  His phone rang, startling him. The ring tone was not the one he had used for work calls and he glanced at the screen. The caller identification showed him that it was his bank back in Munich.

  "Peter Sparke."

  "Mr. Sparke, this is Wenger at the bank. I am sorry to call you, but there has been some unusual activity in your account. It seems that there has been an unauthorized attempt to access your account."

  "Someone tried to withdraw money?"

  "No, it is a very unusual situation. It looks as though someone masquerading at the British Queen has tried to deposit over seventeen million Euros in your account."

  Carte Blanche

  "I must speak with the Knight Commander," said Salvatore.

  The face behind the small window in the wooden doorway looked at Salvatore with the blank, hostile look that gatekeepers the world over have reserved for unexpected visitors, especially those in threadbare clothes carrying their own bulky packs.

  "Your name?"

  "My name is for the Commander to know. I will wait." Salvatore turned away from the entrance of the Templar's Tripoli Commandery and stood in the shade of a nearby building.

  Thirty minutes later, the small door to the side of the main entrance opened and the gatekeeper stepped out. He waved towards Salvatore, who pulled the hood over his face and approached until he was halted by a gesture from the guard, who stood to one side, placing his hand ostentatiously on the hilt of his sword as a another man stepped out into the glaring heat.

  "You are Moncoda, the Commander here?" said Salvatore.

  "Who are you?"

  "I am someone who will talk with Moncoda."

  "I am Moncoda, what do you want?"

  Salvatore reached under his tunic and drew a piece of parchment from the satchel he carried next to his heart. The Commander unfolded the document and read it several times, inspecting the seals carefully. He folded the parchment and handed it back to Salvatore. "Come," he said, gesturing to the inside of the building.

  "No, we can talk out here," said Salvatore, turning back to the shadows across the street. The Commander spoke briefly to the guard, and then followed.

  "I have heard of such a document, but never seen one," he said to Salvatore.

  "You understand what it means?"

  "It is a carte blanche from the Grand Master. It means whatever you want it to mean. I will do everything in my power to assist you."

  "How many men can you muster within the hour?"

  "Twelve knights, ten sergeants."

  Salvatore nodded, saying, "Assemble them. We will be gone for two days, three at most. I need a horse for myself."

  Within the hour, the main gate swung open again. Salvatore, standing in the shadows, reached into his sack and pulled out his white Templar mantel. He pulled this over his head and wrapped his shaven face in a scarf.

  He stepped into the light and walked towards the Commander and his troop of knights. All stared at him as, without a word, he mounted the horse the Commander offered and took position behind him.

  "You know the road to Al Bahtain?"

  "Of course,' said the Commander, leading the troop at a slow trot out of town.

  The troop of more than twenty men covered ground quickly and four hours later they came to a low stone wall, hastily thrown up. Four blacked patches of ground showed that fires had been set there recently. Tracks from several wheeled wagons marked the earth.

  "What is this?" asked Salvatore.

  "A night halt for a caravan," said the Commander. "At least three wagons and thirty or more horsemen. Used three or four days ago."

  Salvatore looked along the route.

  "We are following the path of the Bishop?" said the Commander, who knew the movements of the people of the city as well as anyone.

  "His caravan was attacked," said Salvatore. "He may be dead, but if he alive he is needed."

  "To reach Al Bahtain he will take the valley route," said the Commander. "If we take the high road we can cut the journey and save time."

  Salvatore nodded, and the Commander set three men out as scouts and ordered the rest of the men up the hillside.

  The route was hard, but fast and less than three hours later they were back on the valley road. Up ahead, Salvatore saw the three scouts stop, then one man rode back to the main party.

  "There are signs of many horses ahead, coming down from the Rook's Nest," said the scout to his Commander, casting curious glances towards the silent Salvatore. The Commander turned to Salvatore.

  "The Rook's Nest is the stronghold of Mosun, the worst sort of bandit," he said. "Normally he takes his subsidy from the city and leaves our traffic alone, but sometimes he forgets who has bought his loyalty. A bishop is a tempting catch."

  Less than an hour of riding brought the troop to a place where the caravan tracks had been crossed by those of the horsemen. Within a mile they found the first graves, quickly dug within the perimeter of another, rapidly built, night halt. There were eight markers in the rough ground.

  "The first attack," said the Commander. "These men would have been a rear guard, left to allow the Bishop to escape. The caravan must have been strong enough to defend itself and find time to bury the bodies."

  As night started to fall, they found a third night halt, smaller than the previous one. The ground around it had been churned up by the hoof-prints of many horses and the walls that marked its perimeter were smaller than the earlier ones. Inside there were four bodies. Salvatore and the Commander stood over the corpses. They had been stripped of weapons and clothing. All showed signs of having suffered violent deaths.

  "We continue until darkness falls," said Salvatore.

  As the sun began to drop, they came across two other bodies on the track and passed them by without dismounting.

  At sundown, the troop halted. The Templars posted a strong guard around their camp, and after the darkest hours of night had passed, they mounted up again. Almost immediately they found another hastily fortified halt.

  Again, it was smaller than the one before. Fewer men need less space. It was only a few miles from the last one and contained the charred remnants of two wagons and more bodies. Salvatore placed his hand on the blackened frame of one of the wagons. It was still warm.

  The Commander called his troop together. "From here, proceed with speed, but caution," he said. "The convoy left here still heading for Al Bahtain. If any still live they will be close.”

  The Templars now moved in a single column with a screen of five scouts spread out ahead and to the sides. Lances were couched in leather sockets near the right foot of each man.

  Suddenly, the lead scout stopped and dismounted, then walked his horse back a dozen paces before signaling to the Commander. Salvatore and the Commander rode up to join him.

  At the brow of the hill, on a narrow pass, the scout dropped to his stomach and crawled forward, then gestured to the Commander and Salvatore who followed suit.

  The three men peered over the low ridge at the flat valley below. The caravan’s survivors had made a last stand. A few wagons stood inside a low stone barricade and men armed with spears and pikes stood guard along one wall of it. Ranked against them was a line of at least fifty horsemen.

  "They are preparing to charge," said the scout. "They must know they are too weak to stop them now."

  The Commander and Salvatore looked at the surrounding landscape. To the right of the pass, the hillside rose into a small steep outcrop of rock. After a moment's thought, the Commander crawled back, remounted and rode to his troop.

  "Leave the pack horses here," he said. "When we rou
nd the hill we will be charging immediately."

  The men dismounted, donning full helmets and discarding any equipment not needed for combat. Each helmet was a solid casque of metal; under that, each knight wore an iron skull cap, a padded leather helmet and a chain mail hood. No Saracen weapon could penetrate this level of protection, except through the eye slits.

  The Commander led the way around the hill, followed closely by the dozen knights, then, behind them, the ten sergeants, all bearing the heavy black and white shields of their Order on their shoulder, the knights in blazing white surcoats with the red emblem of their Order on their left shoulder, the sergeants in their dowdy brown habits.

  As they rounded the rocky outcrop, they could hear the voices of Mosun's men, excited and ready for their final charge on the rich caravan, delaying their assault as a final taunt to their victims.

  With a single, piercing command from Mosun, the ragged line of bandits began to move forward. Two hundred yards to their right, and slightly behind them, the unseen Templars started to form into their own charge line.

  No orders were required. Without a second glance, the Commander pushed his horse into a trot, then a gallop and the whole troop followed as they broke into a charge.

  Changes

  "I should have contacted you to let you know about this," said Sparke to his bank manager. “That transaction is correct. The money is coming from the Crown Office in the UK, not the Queen personally."

  "Correct?" said Werner. "This is very unusual. The account you have is not designed to hold that amount of funds. Arrangements need to be correctly made."

  "I'm sure they do. Can you manage those arrangements?"

  "Of course, it can be managed, but it is best to do these things in advance. Most of the funds should be held in a capital account until you decide on your financial strategy."

  "Strategy?"

  "Of course, this amount of assets must be managed actively."

  "How much can be held in my existing account?"

  Werner paused. "Normally no more than five hundred thousand euros."

  "That sounds reasonable. Can you do what is required in the meantime and we can discuss matters when I come back to Munich?

  "Yes, certainly Mr. Sparke. The transaction was not cancelled, only placed on hold. We can release the funds immediately."

  This dialogue only seemed to make him more interesting to the little dog at his feet, who tilted her head at him as he spoke. Sparke looked down at the dog. She seemed to take this as enough of an invitation to leap into his lap. The woman, still engrossed in her call, noticed nothing. Sparke looked at the dog and the dog looked back at him.

  "Hello," Sparke said to the dog. There seemed to be something about Sparke that the dog found fascinating. The dog was at least part terrier, part several other breeds and certainly not any type of pedigree. Its long ears fell over the front of her face and long wavy hair covered her body. The dog had a stare of intense curiosity, as though Sparke was some sort of weird phenomenon in need of detailed examination.

  "I have just had fourteen million pounds, that's about twenty million bucks, put into my bank account," he said, "and I am telling this big news to a dog." The dog seemed intrigued.

  "Tell me, what would any sensible person do if they had just become a multi-millionaire?"

  The dog cocked her head to one side, then turned quickly to look at the pastry sitting on Sparke's plate. Sparke broke a piece off, looked toward her oblivious owner, then offered it to the dog, who took it, surprisingly delicately, and ate it.

  "Nice, eh? Like it?" He gave the dog another piece which went down equally well. "Nice to eat nice things, I suppose. Maybe I should do some nice things, try something new?" As far as he could tell the dog did not disagree.

  Next to him, the woman suddenly snapped her phone shut, downed her coffee and stood up. For the first time she noticed that her dog was not under the table. She glanced at Sparke, and then scooped her pet up from his lap. For a second, she glanced at Sparke noting his baggy chinos and shapeless polo shirt and the bag near his feet.

  "Very sorry," she said and strode off into the heart of the city, reaching for her phone again as the dog trotted at her heels.

  Sparke finished his coffee and walked back along the street he had come in by. After a hundred yards or so, he came to the entrance of a hotel he had noticed earlier. The Grand Hotel Continental looked out onto the hot busy streets of Siena with an air of elegant confidence.

  "Do you have any rooms free tonight?" he asked, dropping his bag on the floor.

  "I'm sorry sir, no. We only have one of our suites available," said the receptionist.

  Sparke took the wallet from his back pocket and fished out his American Express card and passed it over with his passport.

  "Just for one night, Mr. Sparke?" she asked, glancing at the card.

  "For the moment, thank you, yes."

  She swiped his card and passed him a room key.

  "Could you have my bag taken up, please? I need to do some shopping."

  He left the hotel and turned right. Just down from the hotel he found a men’s clothing store with a store front barely six feet across. It was called Boggi of Milan and he would never in a million years have thought of going in until now. In the window he saw a number of stylish and obviously well-made clothes. He saw his own reflection in the window. Since he had rarely worn a suit at work, he had fallen into the habit of wearing chinos and sports shirts almost every day. He peered into the window and crouched down until his head appeared reflected just over the display model. Taking a deep breath, he walked in.

  "Good morning, sir, how can we help you?" said the shop assistant.

  Sparke looked at the man, who was simply, but exquisitely dressed; a walking advertising for his store.

  "I need…" He paused. "Well, I need everything."

  The assistant did not bat an eye. "Did you see anything in particular you liked?"

  Sparke pointed to the half mannequin in the window. "That looks nice."

  For the next two hours, Spark was the center of a one-man makeover. The assistant, Guido, was a blur of shirts, jackets and shoes until Sparke had several outfits hung on hangers around the fitting room. The process was made much easier as Sparke was a thoroughly standard men’s “medium” in size.

  "I'll take everything," he said.

  Guido had coffee sent in from the café along the street as he packed Sparke's bags. Sparke picked one outfit. "I think I will wear this now, if that's all right."

  "Of course. Where are you staying, sir?"

  "At the Grande Continental."

  "I will have everything delivered for you, if you like."

  "Guido, I would like that very much, thank you. But could you throw my old clothes out for me?"

  Guido smiled as he swiped Sparke's card. "It will be a pleasure."

  Sparke left the store, trying not to stare at himself in the windows as he walked along the street. He found a quiet restaurant and ordered a meal. For the first time in his life he had wine with his food when he was eating alone.

  After dinner he took a long, circuitous route back to his hotel, through the early evening crowds in the city's main Campo square, and walked into the reception.

  "Ah, Mr. Sparke," said the receptionist, "we have had messages for you, several messages."

  "Messages?" No one could possibly know that Sparke was in his hotel. It was impossible that there could be a message for him. He took the four pieces of paper the receptionist offered him.

  "Cannot reach you on your cell phone. Please call immediately."

  "Can you call me as soon as you have this message."

  "Please respond to my earlier messages."

  At the bottom of each message was the name of the person who had left it and a Munich phone number. The name on the messages was “Karin”.

  Charge

  The scent of easy plunder and the chance to kill more of the western unbelievers acted like a drug on the
line of Arab horsemen as they cantered forward. For three days they had been carefully chopping this caravan to pieces, killing men at long distance with bow and arrow and slaughtering the rear guards and stragglers with lightning charges. The raiders had suffered no casualties of their own.

  Having taken up position between the caravan and the road back to Tripoli, they had driven their prey forward like beasts to the slaughter. They had relished the midnight hours spent taunting the terrified men, huddled behind their stone walls. Not all attacks were this easy.

  The caravan was weakened now to the point of being effectively defenseless and the charging men knew that this would be the final act. The screaming pandemonium of their assault would overwhelm the demoralized survivors in one wild rush. Experience told them that most of the western defenders would die where they stood, unable to even fight for their lives and welcoming a fast death. Some would run like hares, a few might make enough of a fight to be worth a good story.

  Once the camp was overwhelmed, any infidels of rank would be taken for ransom. The rest would die, the fortunate ones immediately. The booty would be shared in proportion, so there would be no personal loot, but still, the competition between the Saracens was intense. Even amongst the bandit rabble of Mosun, there was glory to be had in a charge.

  Their line stretched over a hundred paces from end to end, and the flat terrain helped them keep a well-dressed formation. Many of the men had served under the command of powerful warlords or generals and they knew the impact of an organized charge rather than a wild mounted mob.

  The sound of their horse’s hooves, their own excited chatter and the faint cries of alarm from the camp filled the air, masking all other sounds, so the men on the extreme right of the line had no warning of the approaching Templars until one of the men suddenly caught a glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye.