The Templar Legion

by Paul Christopher

  “I still don’t understand,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “What does this have to do with Nagoupandé?”

  “The shares must go onto the open market all over the world. We will announce a gold strike somewhere in British Columbia. The shares will rise and they will be purchased quickly as the price goes up. The gold find will turn out to be false and the stocks will fall, at which point my client will buy them for lower than the price they were when they went on the market. Nagoupandé will by then have been installed as head of state of Kukuanaland and whatever mineral is located there will be announced as being owned by Silver Brand Mining, a Canadian corporation. Any questions will take them to the directors of Silver Brand, who are all employees of Gesler Bank, but not actual shareholders in Silver Brand Mining. My client is safely hidden, yes? All we have to do is purchase enough shares at the fifty-cent margin to go along for the ride, as the Americans say.”

  “I would need some time to consult with my Cuban friends,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “When do you sign over the proxy?”

  “Nagoupandé is to be installed as head of state on the thirty-first of this month. My client wishes to have the proxy in hand a week before that. I leave the day after tomorrow.”

  Saint-Sylvestre checked his watch. “A week from tomorrow, then.”

  “I suppose.” Euhler reached out and stroked Saint-Sylvestre’s cheek again. “Like another drink, Tarik? To celebrate our auspicious meeting?”

  “The bathroom first, I’m afraid.” Saint-Sylvestre smiled.

  “There are two; you’re welcome to use the en suite in my bedroom if you like.”

  “That might be fun,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “Perhaps we could have our drinks in there.”

  “Wonderful.” Euhler beamed. “It’s just to the left. I’ll mix.”

  “And I’ll pee,” said Saint-Sylvestre.

  Euhler giggled brightly and headed for the bar. Saint-Sylvestre went through Euhler’s bedroom—black satin sheets, a pedestal BeoSound 9000 audio center and a long, low chest of drawers. There was a modern headboard that also served as a bookcase. Saint-Sylvestre looked—mostly poetry and literary criticism. A lot of García Lorca, which stood to reason. He went into the adjoining bathroom.

  The bathroom had a tub, a walk-in shower enclosure and a single, hand-painted porcelain sink. A flat-screen TV was mounted above the sink so you could watch the morning news or the stock ticker while you brushed your teeth. In the medicine cabinet he found hair darkener, an electric razor—Braun, of course—and a selection of pills, mostly for pain, allergies and sleep. There was also a box of a dozen Viagra. Saint-Sylvestre quickly checked through the painkillers and the sleeping pills: ten-milligram Percocet, Opana, the trade name for oxymorphone, which was even stronger than the Percocet; Seconal and phenobarbital for sleep; and even a selection of anxiety depressants, like Ativan, diazepam and even Zanaflex.

  Euhler seemed to use the Ativan most of all and the prescription was almost out, so Saint-Sylvestre used the three-quarters-empty plastic bottle to load up with a random selection of all the other drugs, making sure he had big doses of the Opana and the phenobarbital. He snapped the lid on and then flushed the toilet.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he thought things through, then undid the top three buttons of his shirt and stepped back into the bedroom. Euhler was seated on the bed in light blue boxer shorts and knee-length black socks. He had a drink in each hand and also an erection. There was some bland music like Vangelis filling the room through the multiple B&O speakers.

  “There you are,” tootled the banker.

  “Here I am,” replied Saint-Sylvestre. He sat down beside the banker on the bed and Euhler handed him a drink. Saint-Sylvestre put his own drink on the bedside table. “Put your drink down and I’ll give you one of my patented shoulder rubs,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “You look just a little tense. Nervous.”

  Euhler laughed weakly. “I usually am in these sorts of . . . situations. A massage right now would be lovely.” He handed his drink to Saint-Sylvestre, who put it down beside his own.

  Saint-Sylvestre shuffled around on the bed so he was directly behind the banker, his strong black legs hanging over the bed, bracketing Euhler’s. “No need to be nervous, Lenny.”

  The man still smelled of too much aftershave. Saint-Sylvestre leaned forward, pressing his back against Euhler’s, gripping the shoulders skillfully and kneading them as Euhler groaned out his pleasure. Saint-Sylvestre tightened his thighs, pushing forward a little more, and the banker moaned. Finally the secret policeman wrapped one arm around the banker’s neck, gripping his wrist with his free hand, and as he squeezed his own thighs between Euhler’s he pushed forward even more.

  “This feels like something an osteopath or a chiropractor might do.” Euhler grunted. He didn’t sound terribly pleased.

  “Something like,” agreed Saint-Sylvestre, expanding his lungs and chest.

  “Not very romantic, really,” said Euhler, a small note of complaint in his voice.

  “No, I suppose not,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He was glad Euhler had the drugs. He could have done it with his bare hands but this was so much cleaner, and if any suspicions were eventually raised they would all lead to dead ends. The policeman steadily increased the pressure of his biceps below Euhler’s left ear and the pressure of his forearm under the right ear. He then pushed his forehead into the back of Euhler’s skull, the conflicting and tightening pressures cutting off all blood to the brain through the carotid arteries and the jugular veins. It took about three seconds in the full sleeper hold to put Euhler into unconsciousness and another twenty-second count to make sure he’d stay out for a minute or two. Five minutes in the hold could turn him into a vegetable, or worse, kill him.

  Saint-Sylvestre leaned back then, bringing Euhler’s body upright. With his right hand still wrapped around the man’s neck he reached into the back pocket of his trousers and took out a pair of latex surgical gloves. It took a few seconds to get the gloves on and then he got down to work. He reached into the front pocket of his trousers and took out the pill bottle, snapping off the lid and letting it fall onto the floor.

  With Euhler still held upright Saint-Sylvestre began feeding the pills from the bottle into his mouth and washing them down with the fresh mojito on the bedside table, lightly stroking the banker’s neck to make sure the pills and the liquor stayed down. When he’d emptied the bottle of pills he wiped the bottle on his shirt, then let it drop to the floor beside the bed. He shifted out from behind the banker’s half-dressed body and stood up, stretching. Euhler was snoring heavily. Saint-Sylvestre surveyed the room, then went through the routine he’d previously assembled in his mind.

  First he did up his own shirt, then stripped off the rest of Euhler’s clothes, leaving him naked, sprawled across the black satin bedspread. Saint-Sylvestre then pulled the coverlet down, tugging it under Euhler’s body and leaving it in a black puddle on the floor at the end of the bed. The policeman then arranged a pile of satin-covered pillows against the headboard and dragged Euhler’s flaccid body up the bed until it lay propped half-upright against the pile. Euhler’s snoring now had a choking, dangerous edge and there were pauses in his breathing followed by deep gasping sounds. The drugs were taking him further into unconsciousness. Saint-Sylvestre glanced at the books on the shelf above Euhler’s head and opened one at random. It was called Spokesmen by somebody named Thomas Whipple. He saw what he needed, smiled and tore out the last stanza at the bottom of the page. It was a poem by the American Carl Sandburg—“Death Snips Proud Men”—and seemed fitting enough.

  The policeman stuffed the ragged bit of paper into Euhler’s palm and closed his fist over it. He left the book on the bed, then left Euhler and the bedroom, returning to the living room and then the home office. He sat down at the computer keyboard and pressed a random key. The waterfall animation disappeared and there was a dark blue screen and a line of text that said, Password, please, with a flashing cursor below it.

 
; He found a pencil and a little pad of paper in the desk drawer and went into the living room. He stood in front of Euhler’s prize photograph and jotted down both Mont Tendre’s height—1,679 meters—and the coordinates below it—46°35’41”N 6°18’36”E.

  He removed the extraneous material and came up with a string of numbers—167946354161836—which he then entered on the keyboard. The screen cleared again and took him to a directory, which he proceeded to copy onto a dozen CD-ROMs he found in a box in the desk.

  He switched off the computer, then stared down at the digital combination lock on the desk safe. On the off chance it would work he entered 1679—the height of Mont Tendre. Nothing happened. He tried the reverse, 9761, and the door clicked open. There was a passport, several dozen Krugerrands, and a respectable stack of high-denomination euros.

  The only other thing in the safe was a bundle of letters and photographs, tied up in a predictable red ribbon. The pictures were pornographic and the letters were as well; even though Saint-Sylvestre’s German was mediocre he could figure out what Ich möchte Sie saugen and lassen Sie uns wie Tiere bumsen meant.

  In the pictures Lenny appeared to be the submissive while his young, blond and very muscular friend was the dominant. The letters were all headed, mein süßer liebster Liebling Lenny, and signed, Ihr liebevolles baby, Lutzie . Love letters from one man to another. He went back into the living room and did some housekeeping, emptying glasses and putting them in the dishwasher as well as removing any other signs that Euhler had entertained a guest that night.

  He returned to the bedroom and saw that Euhler had both vomited and lost control of his bowels. Either his heart had slowed to a stop under the effects of the multiple drugs or he had suffocated on his own vomit. One way or another, the banker was dead. Saint-Sylvestre dropped the letters and the ribbon on the floor beside the bed, leaving the impression that reading them had been Euhler’s last act before ripping his maudlin little epigraph from the book collection, then downing the pills with his mojito—party boy to the end.

  It all looked authentic enough and there was no reason to suspect foul play. An aging homosexual took his own life knowing that things were never going to get any better than they’d been with Ihr liebevolles baby, Lutzie. If Lutzie was very unlucky the police would track him down and ask a few questions, but that would almost certainly be the end of it.

  Satisfied, Saint-Sylvestre used his cell phone to look up flights from Zurich to Vancouver. He found a Swissair flight out of Zurich to Paris in an hour and a half, and a red-eye Air Canada flight that would get him to Vancouver at seven in the morning, Pacific time.

  He picked up the old stock certificate off the coffee table, folded it and put it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He took one last look around, Euhler out of his thoughts, his mind now thinking about twin sisters in an old folks’ home halfway around the world. He left the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

  21

  The children marched them through the jungle in perfect military order, the smallest taking point thirty or forty feet ahead, one on their left, one on their right and the fourth coming up behind, the too-large weapon held firmly at port arms, ready to cut them down at the slightest indication of resistance.

  It was he who had relieved Peggy of her camera and now wore it across his chest, looking like a sort of fearsome tourist child waiting for Mowgli or Baloo to appear on the trail before him.

  They walked without speaking and when they communicated it was through hand motions and whistles. Their attention was on their environment and their prisoners, their faces devoid of emotion, or perhaps, thought Holliday, they had no emotion left.

  When he was ten his uncle had bought him a perfect replica of a Buntline Special, the Colt Peacemaker with the twelve-inch barrel that legend had it Wyatt Earp used. The enormous handgun must have looked ridiculous to any adult, but there was no sense of that with their four young jailers. The AK-47s seemed horribly normal being carried by these kids. The four children guarding them would commit cold-blooded murder without hesitation. The oldest couldn’t have been more than twelve.

  They walked through the forest for an hour, and then two. At first Holliday thought they were heading for the distant trio of hills that seemed to struggle up out of the jungle but then they turned away. Coming over a small ridge he saw the river and between them and the water the smoking ruins of a village.

  A few minutes later they reached the bottom of the rise and Holliday saw the first human remains, a human arm, male, sliced off close to the shoulder, marrow yellow where the bone had been crushed, blood in the dirt and sand congealing on the stump, the hand flexed as though clutching for a beggar’s offering that would never come. A few yards down the path was a head, split almost in two with the sweeping cut of a blade, taking off the head at the eyebrows and opening it like a softboiled egg.

  Rafi threw up and Peggy began to cry silently. Strangely Eddie began to sing; the tune was familiar—“Auld Lang Syne”—but the words were different. Spanish, crooned like a lullaby, whispered so softly Holliday doubted that anyone else had heard.

  Por qué perder las esperanzas

  de volverse a ver,

  por qué perder las esperanzas

  si hay tanto querer.

  The words must have had some fierce meaning for the Cuban, because his jaw was hard and Holliday could see the big sinus vein bulging across his forehead: as they continued along the path and into the smoking remains of the village there was more and more carnage—an infant that had been covered in gasoline and then thrown into a campfire, several male bodies staked out on the ground covered with hacking bloody cuts, several men, women and girls strung up from tree branches with piano wire that had almost decapitated them, the smell of blood and feces everywhere and above it all the sound of wailing children. Holliday could see them down at the riverbank. They were tied together in a row, about fifteen of them, the rope then attached to the stern of one of their big dugouts. A dozen older children, fourteen or fifteen years old, were waiting at their paddles, apparently for some signal.

  Their four guards led the prisoners around the smoldering wreckage of a large hut, probably the common “longhouse” or dormitory for single men. Beyond it was a Russian UAZ Jeep knockoff in old-style jungle camo. Sitting on the hood of the vehicle was a dragonheaded man wearing a blue-and-orange New York Knicks jersey and old-fashioned black-and-white high-tops with a pair of worn green-on-green fatigues pushed into them. Holliday could see a very expensive-looking cobra tattoo in three colors on his right shoulder.

  Beside him on the hood of the vehicle was a bloody machete. He had a holster around his waist and Holliday could see the handle of a .45 automatic peeking out. The dragon head looked as though it had been carved out of soft, light wood, the scales on the head alternately painted green and gold, the face red and the eyes yellow. The long curling tongue that stretched out over the bright ivory animal teeth was black. Holliday had never seen anything like it.

  “My God!” Rafi whispered.

  “What?” Holliday asked.

  “It’s a figurehead; I swear it, a Norse figurehead.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, this guy is a descendant of our Viking pals back there?”

  “It means it’s part of a cargo cult tradition,” said Rafi.

  “You done your gabbin’ now?” said a voice from within the mask. The man sitting on the hood of the Russian Jeep took off the mask and set it down opposite the machete. The blood was beginning to dry a rusty brown. The buzzing of flies was everywhere.

  “Where did you get the mask?” Rafi asked.

  “Not that it be any your business little mama’s mang sal but I got it off the head of their witchie man. Right off his head!” The man in the Knicks jersey laughed. All his front teeth, top and bottom, were gold.

  “Who are you?” Holliday asked.

  “I am the man who holds your life in his hands, Nduku. The name my mother gave me was Jerimiah Sal
amango but I am now called Jerimiah Salamango of Christ, destroyer in His holy name. Rapist of temptress women in His holy name, deliverer of souls in His holy name, praise God! You understand this? I kill for my God as well as pray to Him on my knees five times each day. And this is the day that God hath made and we should rejoice in the shedding of blood for Him, praise God and hallelujah!”

  “Why have you brought us here?” Holliday asked. The reek of the village was overpowering and the flies landing on him left sticky tracks on his skin.

  “At first we saw your trail and then we saw the bodies of the men you killed and Jerimiah Salamango had curiosity about men who would take on a machine gun with spears and arrows. Then when my scouts reported back to me I thought I would make you my envoys, tells of Jerimiah’s story across the land to put fear in everyone and say that he was coming. In the end that is what Jerimiah Salamango has decided to do. When it was told to me that your woman had a picture camera it was even better, because you can get Jerimiah Salamango’s face on the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric. This camera makes video?”

  “Yes,” said Peggy.

  “Jerimiah thinks you are very lucky that you are the operator of the camera or you would have been fed to my lions, my very young lions.” He spread his hands, indicating the children around them. “My hungry lions.”

  “You’re insane,” said Rafi.

  “You could be dead in a very few moments if Jerimiah loses his temper.”

  “Shut up, Rafi,” Peggy said.

  Salamango slid off the hood of the car and walked down a narrow pathway to the river that had obviously once been the main street of the village. The boy carrying Peggy’s camera prodded them forward and they walked beside the man in the Knicks T-shirt through the smoldering lines of straw and mud huts and through the littered, shattered bodies and pieces of bodies.