Sword of the Templars

by Paul Christopher

  They faked taking a ride on one of the westbound trains, but got off at the last second, doubled back, and finally climbed onto a train heading for Château de Vincennes just as the doors were hissing closed. The horn gave its warbling warning, and they moved off. At the far end of the car a young woman with a clarinet started doing an excellent rendition of Benny Goodman’s “One O’Clock Jump.”

  “Did they get on?” Peggy asked.

  “American Tourist did, I think; three or four cars back. We ditched Bomber Jacket.”

  “Presumably they’ll have cell phones. They’ll be in contact.”

  “Where’s the best place to get off?” Holliday asked.

  “To leave American Tourist behind?” Peggy shrugged. “Nation. It’s the next big multiple-line station, just this side of the Périphérique, the ring road we took in from the airport, like the Beltway in D.C.”

  “And after that?”

  “Saint-Mandé, on the other side of the ring road.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Old apartment buildings. Upper middle class, doctors, lawyers. There’s some kind of farmers’ market there; I don’t know what days.”

  “Taxis?”

  “There should be a taxi stand right outside the Metro.”

  Holliday looked up at the Metro diagram above the doors a few feet away. There were seven stations between Châtelet and Saint-Mandé.

  “How long to Nation?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Saint-Mandé?”

  “Three minutes more. What are you thinking?”

  “Get off at Nation. Make him believe it. Then get back on again. If we shake him, great. If we don’t, we get a taxi at the Saint-Mandé stop and see if we can lose him that way.”

  “Okay,” she nodded.

  Holliday looked at his watch. Three in the afternoon. The train was half-filled with tired looking civil service types. Men in jackets and ties, women in dresses and high heels. These people were going home.

  A baguette was sticking out of a woman’s shopping bag, and Holliday realized that the only thing he’d eaten since getting off the plane had been a single slightly greasy sausage roll. Neither he nor Peggy had slept since leaving Jerusalem. If they didn’t find somewhere to go to ground soon they were both going to collapse.

  The train pulled into Nation with a roar and shuddered to a screeching stop. The doors sucked open, and they stepped out onto the platform. The train was emptying almost completely. Three cars up they saw American Tourist, and they suddenly had a bit of luck. Somebody made a grab for the Nikon prop around the fake tourist’s neck and in the process dragged American Tourist off balance. They fell together in a tangle just as the warning horn sounded. Peggy and Holliday stepped back into the train. The doors shut, and they moved off, leaving American Tourist behind.

  At Saint-Mandé they climbed up into daylight again. The farmers’ market, a double row of tent-like booths set up in a parking area, was winding up. The air smelled like fresh cabbage and chicken blood. Across from the Metro exit and the farmers’ market there was an intersection of two main streets with a florist on one side and a café with an awning and a red, glowing neon sign: LA TOURELLE.

  They crossed to the café, picked a table where they could keep an eye on the Metro exit and sat down. A waiter came and sneered silently. They both ordered Kronenbourgs and a sandwich jambon with fries. The sneering waiter disappeared.

  “We can’t stay exposed like this for too long. We have to get off the street.”

  “Another hotel?”

  “If Captain Renault was really with the Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale he’ll have the hotels covered. Every registered guest is on a police report somewhere. They’ve gotten even tighter since 9/11. They’ll find us within hours.”

  “So what do we do?” Peggy asked.

  The beer and sandwiches arrived. The sneering waiter served them and then disappeared again.

  “I’ll think of something,” said Holliday. They began to eat.

  Holliday was always fascinated by the way the French took their food so seriously. Here he was in the Parisian equivalent of a New York diner, and the food was worthy of a four-star bistro in the Village. The crusty bread was unbelievably fresh, the butter was sweet, the ham was lean, thinly sliced, and smoked to perfection, and the fries were hand-sliced and golden brown. No wonder the waiter sneered; he had a right to. He was serving the perfect sandwich to people who were used to something vaguely pinkish being slipped between two slices of Wonder Bread and sprinkled with shredded green cellulose that said it was lettuce.

  Holliday looked down the long, tree-lined street on his left. According to the plaque high on the wall of the florist’s across from the café it was avenue Foch. Probably named by some developer a hundred years ago hoping to confuse it with the much more prestigious avenue Foch that led away from the Arc de Triomphe on the other side of town.

  This avenue Foch looked like a good, solid middle-class place to live: trees neatly trimmed and unbroken lines of faintly Edwardian-looking apartment buildings butt-ended together to form a solid block, protected by well maintained wrought iron fences. Here and there along the row of buildings Holliday could see the gleaming brass plaques beside some of the doors discreetly advertising doctors, dentists, and maybe even a few lawyers.

  Five doors down on the other side of the street a domestic drama was unfolding that caught Holliday’s attention for a moment. A man in his thirties was loading up a pale blue Peugeot Partner, a compact minivan that looked vaguely cartoonish. The trunk was filled to overflowing, and he was working on the roof rack, building a precarious pile of cardboard boxes and suitcases.

  The man was dressed in gray flannels and a white shirt, but the shirt had the sleeves rolled up and he wasn’t wearing a tie. The shoes on his feet were open-toed sandals; a man preparing to go on vacation. The front door of the building opened and a pretty dark-haired woman appeared with three small children in tow, all girls. Two of the girls had suitcases while the youngest one had a pink overnight case wedged into a doll’s baby carriage.

  There was a brief argument about the baby carriage, and the youngest girl began to cry. A moment later the second youngest started crying, too, while the oldest, a girl of about twelve or so, simply looked bored. Eventually the man in the gray flannels realized he was outnumbered four to one, and he capitulated, putting the baby carriage on the roof rack. The youngest girl, still crying, then took it upon herself to prolong the melodrama and bolted for the door of the apartment building, wailing in full voice. A drill sergeant’s bark from the mother stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “Marie-Claire Allard! Viens ici im-med-i-ate-ment!”

  The little girl stood her ground for a moment. Her mother stamped her foot once. Marie-Claire realized that further resistance was useless. Head bowed, the little girl trudged down the sidewalk and climbed into the minivan, followed by her two sisters. The mother got into the passenger seat, the man got behind the wheel. The Peugeot pulled away from the curb, heading east, out of the city.

  “Parenthood,” said Peggy, who’d been watching, as well. She popped the last pomme frite on her plate into her mouth. “No ketchup,” she said mournfully. “Typical.”

  “You done?” Holliday asked.

  “Yup,” said Peggy. “You figured anything out yet?”

  “Absolutely,” nodded Holliday. “Little Marie-Claire Allard just gave me an idea.”

  They paid the bill, then crossed avenue Foch and went down the street to number ten. They went through the main door and stepped into a marble-tiled foyer. There was a brass plate array of apartments and buzzers. They scanned the names, but there was no Allard listed.

  Holliday heard a faint creaking sound. A breeze was gently moving another door at the end of the hallway. The door was inset with a panel of frosted glass. Behind it Holliday saw a square of what appeared to be natural light. A courtyard? They went down the hallway, and Holliday pushed open the door.

  They stepped out onto a flagstone path in a vest-poc
ket garden that led to the front door of a two-story stone house with a red-tiled roof. Once upon a time the house had probably been the original number ten avenue Foch, but over the years it had become enclosed by a looming canyon of apartments.

  They went down the walk to the front door. The door was dark oak, deeply carved with decorative squares. The keyhole was ancient, big enough to stick an index finger into. Holliday could have picked the lock with a bent nail. He reached up to the lintel above the door and felt along it. He pulled down a huge iron key and slipped it into the lock. He turned the key and the door opened. They stepped inside.

  The house was a far cry from the hotel on rue Latran. To the left was a large, paneled library with a fireplace, a giant antique globe on casters, and an enormous plasma TV nestled in a wall of books. There was a leather couch, a couple of comfortable-looking leather chairs, and a heavy oak desk that matched the front door.

  A row of shuttered windows looked out onto the little garden and an old stone wall. The late-afternoon sun trickled in through the shutter slats, throwing bars of pewter light onto the dark green Persian carpet. A quick shuffle through the papers on the desk told Holliday that M. Pierre Allard was a professor of philosophy at the University of Vincennes, and Madame Allard was actually Dr. Allard, an orthodontist.

  To the right of the front door there was a good-sized dining room with a state-of-the-art kitchen in the rear of the house. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, three small ones for the girl, a larger one for M. and Dr. Allard. Holliday and Peggy didn’t even say good night to each other. Holliday took the bedroom with the Barbie dolls, and Peggy took the one with the posters of Cold-play on the walls. They were both asleep in minutes.

  27

  They woke up the next morning refreshed but a little disoriented. Holliday opened his eyes to a shelf full of Barbies staring down at him in busty, well-coiffed splendor, and Peggy found herself squeezing into her jeans under the baleful James Dean gaze of Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband, Chris Martin. Once dressed, they met up in the library. Holliday was watching the big plasma TV and drinking coffee.

  “There’s coffee in the squeeze pot on the counter, but there’s no milk,” he said. “Madame Allard cleaned out the fridge before they headed out.”

  “Are we on the news?” Peggy asked.

  “Nothing on TF1 or Canal Plus. Nothing on Sky News or CNN.”

  “Maybe they haven’t found the body.”

  “Maybe,” said Holliday. “Or maybe the Sűreté just put a clamp on the networks.”

  Peggy fetched herself a cup of coffee, then came back into the library and sat down in one of the big leather chairs, her eyes on the television. There was an ad for the French-translated version of The Lost playing.

  “Maybe we should have hightailed it out of the city yesterday,” said Peggy. “Maybe we’re trapped. Eventually the Allards are going to come back from their holiday.” Peggy’s expression soured. “I feel a little bit like Goldilocks here.”

  “There won’t be any baby bears coming back to taste their porridge for a while,” said Holliday. “They had enough stuff packed into that minivan to last them for a year.” He smiled. “Not to mention the fact that there’s no porridge in the house; the French don’t seem to like canned goods or frozen pizza.”

  “I could use another one of those sandwichs jambon,” said Peggy. “I’m famished.”

  They locked up the house and went back to La Tourelle. It was nine o’clock, and the streets were jammed with traffic. They sat down at the same table they’d had the day before, and the same sneering waiter appeared with menus. Peggy chose an herb omelet, and Holliday settled on ham and eggs. They both had more coffee. Once again the food was wonderful and the service surly.

  “We’ve got to get to La Rochelle,” said Holliday. “But if the police are onto us they’ll have the airport under surveillance and the train stations.”

  “We could rent a car,” suggested Peggy.

  “If they know who we are then they’ll be monitoring car rental agencies, as well.”

  “There has to be some way,” said Peggy. “We can’t stay in the Allards’ place forever.”

  They ate their breakfasts and sipped their coffee. The waiter didn’t seem disposed to provide refills. Peggy looked down avenue Foch at the parked cars and the slowly moving traffic.

  “Did you notice Madame Allard’s business address by any chance?” Peggy said thoughtfully.

  “Avenue Victor Hugo. A low number, I think. Six maybe.”

  “That’s only a block from the Arc de Triomphe,” said Peggy.

  “So?”

  “Think about it,” said Peggy. “The Allards have a minivan. Why?”

  “Because they’ve got three kids and a place in the country.”

  “Almost guaranteed wherever those kids go to school is nearby. The University of Vincennes is only three or four miles away in Saint-Denis. They probably have a day-care center there for the faculty.”

  “I repeat . . . so?”

  “It means Monsieur Allard, the young professor, is probably the one who takes them to school. In the minivan. And I don’t see Dr. Allard, the woman who can afford to have her dental practice next door to the Champs-Élysées, taking the Metro to work with the rest of the sweaty petite bourgeoisie.”

  “You think they have another car?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Peggy. “Her car.”

  Holliday looked down the street. There were cars parked on both sides, and there were half a dozen side streets nearby.

  “How are we supposed to find it? There are hundreds of cars in the neighborhood.”

  “You don’t watch enough television, Doc. I told you before—welcome to the digital age.”

  They finished up their breakfasts and went back to the stone house hidden in the courtyard. Peggy found the keys exactly where you’d expect: in a little candy dish on a table beside the door. The keys had an electronic door opener on a Mercedes key ring. Ten minutes later, beeping the door opener every few feet, they found the lady dentist’s car around the corner on rue Cart.

  “Now ain’t that something?” said Peggy, staring.

  Parked at the curb, deep green and gleaming, was a brand-new Mercedes S Class sedan, eighty thousand dollars on four very expensive wheels. Less than an hour later, stocked up with a polystyrene cooler full of food and drink for the five-hour drive to La Rochelle, they headed out of the city, traveling southwest toward the Bay of Biscay.

  They drove to Versailles, then continued south to Chartres and then Tours, navigating the length of the Loire Valley. They stopped just outside Tours for a picnic lunch by the gently flowing River Cher and then drove to Poitiers and finally to La Rochelle, arriving in the port city at three thirty in the afternoon.

  The city of La Rochelle was established as a small fishing village in the year A.D. 1000, but the University of La Rochelle was so new it squeaked. Opened in 1993, the campus was ultramodern, and so were the students. The biggest faculty was Mass Communications, and the university was a correspondence school with half a dozen institutions, including SUNY in the United States. The university was located in the southern part of the city, close to the water and within a stone’s throw of Minimes, once a fishing port in its own right and now an immense marina.

  Dr. Valerie Duroc’s office was in the Humanities building at the university, on the top floor. The room was austere to the extreme. Metal desk, metal bookcases, metal filing cabinets, and a framed photograph of an anonymous beach with palm trees at sunset that could have been the Seychelles or San Diego.

  Duroc was a woman in her sixties who looked like a slightly less emaciated version of Lauren Bacall with a voice to match: throaty smoke over buckwheat honey. She had huge Bette Davis eyes, sculpted cheekbones and gray hair cut in a shaggy pageboy that looked as though she might have done it herself but which probably cost a fortune. She was wearing a wine red silk blouse, a pleated skirt, and Arche sling-back flats. She smoked unfiltered Gitanes Brunes; not quite as foul as Bernheim’s Boyards, but close.