The Templar Cross t-2

by Paul Christopher

  "Cazzo merda! Fuoco! Fuoco!"

  One last time check. Thirty seconds. It didn't matter; the flames were rolling his way in long consuming tongues; if he didn't move now he was going to fry. He pulled the Tanfoglio 9mm out of his belt. The Italian weapons Vince Caruso had provided were commercial grade, mostly used for target practice and self-defense. Simple to use with sixteen in the magazine. A total of forty-eight rounds between them. Any second now and there was going to be a hailstorm of bullets upstairs. Holliday winced, thinking about it, then forcing himself not to. Like sticking your head into a hornet's nest. He took a deep breath, then pushed up on the trapdoor.

  To Holliday it was like a series of snapshots taken at a billiard table, stuttering stroboscopic images connected like the cars on a freight train. It went far better than they had any right to expect.

  There were five men in the shack and the call of Fire! had split them almost evenly, two men running toward the balcony and into the choking cloud of smoke and two men turning toward the sound of the crashing door as Rafi and Tidyman burst in through the rear, rolling left and right as Holliday had instructed. The fifth man, the bald Father Damaso, stayed exactly where he was, seated in a comfortable stuffed chair with a clear field of view toward their hostage, who was chained to an iron U bolt in the corner of the room.

  The shack was divided into two areas separated by a flimsy plywood wall, the tank room in the forward area and the living and cooking area in the back. The trapdoor was set into the floor between the two and opened looking forward. Coming through the floor Holliday was facing back toward the river. Partway into the room he leveled the automatic and squeezed off half the clip without aiming, simply swinging the muzzle from right to left in a rapid arc. He hit both men, one in the face, the other in the chest. They both fell without a sound, thrown back into the smoke and flames.

  Holliday pushed himself up and out of the opening in the floor, turning away from the fire, then rolled to his left, bringing his weapon to bear but not firing. Rafi was already up on his knees, his body between the guards and Peggy, who had flung herself down on the mattress she had been given by her captors. He had his pistol in one hand and the steel-pointed fish gaff he'd used to pry open the door in the other. Tidyman was directly opposite him on the other side of the room, creating the angled cross fire Holliday had suggested to them.

  Both men fired a steady stream of fire into the two guards, both armed with some kind of compact machine pistols they were still struggling to remove from their sling holsters as Rafi and Tidyman began to fire.

  Rafi, his clip empty, lunged toward Father Damaso with the fish gaff. The bald priest was unarmed except for what appeared to be a cricket bat balanced across his knees. He brought the bat up defensively as Rafi lunged, screaming obscenities. Damaso swiped at Rafi one-handed, clubbing the younger man aside as he rose out of the chair. Grasping the long flat instrument in both hands, the priest was about to bring it down like an ax on the back of Rafi's skull when Holliday shot him, putting half a dozen rounds into his chest, shredding flesh and bone and sending the dead man tumbling back over the stuffed chair.

  The front half of the shack was an inferno and it was getting closer with each passing second. The first two men had been completely consumed and the flames would reach the rear half of the shack in an instant. Holliday rushed forward, retrieving the steel fish gaff, heading for Peggy, who was now curled up on the mattress, arms crossed above her head.

  As Rafi groaned and pushed himself to his hands and knees, Holliday got the gaff through the U bolt shackling Peggy to the floor and started to pry it up. He got a good look at his cousin. Her face was streaked with grime and her short dark hair was matted, but under the circumstances she looked better than he'd expected.

  "Peg?"

  "Doc?" Her voice was parched and cracked.

  He pushed the hair gently off her face.

  "It's okay, I'm here now, kiddo."

  Peggy laughed weakly. "What the hell took you guys so long?"

  "Love you too, Peggy-o," Holliday said and grinned. She smiled up at him wearily. Suddenly she looked terribly fragile. Then Rafi took her in his arms and the tears began to flow. A few seconds later Holliday managed to get the U bolt out of the floor and she was free. Tidyman appeared out of the smoke and haze. He had a ring of keys in one hand and his pistol in the other. Suddenly there was a sound like a gunshot going off and the front of the chiesetta lurched and sagged. The flames roared toward them.

  "Our chariot awaits," said Tidyman. "Better hurry up unless you want to be part of the fish fry."

  They followed the Egyptian out of the burning shack and into the sunlight. There were no sirens yet, and except for the roar of the climbing flames at their back and the cloud of greasy smoke rising into the salt air everything seemed normal. Rafi brought up the rear, supporting a still wobbly Peggy, his arm around her shoulders.

  She staggered a little as she walked, leaning into Rafi's side, her head bent to his shoulder. Tidyman unlocked the doors of the old Fiat Ducato van and they climbed in, Rafi and Peggy in the back, Tidyman and Holliday up front. The interior of the van was baking hot, the air close and suffocating. As Tidyman started the engine they heard the first warbling of the fire trucks in the distance ahead of them.

  "Bug-out time," said Holliday. Behind them the flames burst through the roof of the shack and boiled into the air. Holliday leaned back in his seat, feeling the adrenaline and the sudden sag of fatigue in a single instant. "They start finding bodies with bullets in that barbecue behind us and we'll be in trouble."

  He glanced out the window on Tidyman's side of the van and saw people coming out of their shacks to gawk at the rising flames. Some busy-body would take down the license plate number and there'd be an all- points alert on the airwaves in minutes.

  Holliday's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He dug it out. Tidyman put the van in gear and swung the steering wheel around. They headed up the dusty road, gravel crunching under the wheels. The approaching sirens were getting louder.

  "Text message from Caruso," said Holliday.

  "What does it say?" Tidyman asked.

  Holliday frowned, not understanding. He read out the message.

  "Termini Station. Seven forty-five sharp. Dress formal. RSVP."

  27

  "You've got to be kidding me," said Holliday to Vince Caruso, standing on the platform for Track 11 at the central Rome train station. Beside the two men, Rafi, Peggy and Emil Tidyman waited, staring at the long line of old-fashioned railway cars on the track beside them. Each of the gleaming, freshly washed coaches was painted a deep rich blue and bore an ornate crest with the letters V.S.O.E. entwined and picked out in gold. Just below the curved, cream-colored roof of each coach, also in gold, was a banner that read Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits.

  "Last night you asked me for an exit strategy, Colonel, sir; this is it," said the young man proudly. "Gets you out of Rome in style."

  "But Vince," said Holliday, "the Orient Express? Come on!"

  "Beg your pardon, Colonel, but it makes pretty good sense from a tactical point of view. Actually, it makes a lotta sense. According to my sources half the cops in Rome are looking for you. Apparently you were involved in the suspicious homicides of a priest who worked for the Vatican and a bunch of mobbed-up La Santa types from Naples. Am I right, Colonel? That a fair assessment?"

  A brake valve hissed loudly and there was an incomprehensible announcement on the PA system. A piercing whistle blew.

  "Close enough," said Holliday.

  "Which means they'll have the airports sewn up, and knowing the cops they'll have roadblocks everywhere. There's more surveillance cameras in Rome than there are in New York. They've been dealing with domestic terrorists for a lot longer than we have, right?"

  "Right," said Holliday.

  "There you go," said Caruso. "So who's going to expect you to bug out of town (a) on a train, and (b) on a train full of rich people and bigwigs? I
t's like trying to escape from Sing Sing on the Queen Mary." The young lieutenant frowned. "Much as I'd like to, sir, there's no way I could stash you at the embassy, either. You and your friends here are red-hot right now."

  "I appreciate everything that you've done, Vince. Believe me, we couldn't have pulled this off without you," said Holliday.

  Peggy, still looking a little the worse for wear, stepped forward. Caruso was easily six feet three in his bare feet and Peggy had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the cheek.

  "Me too, Lieutenant," she said quietly. "You saved my life."

  Caruso blushed like a schoolboy out on his first date. Peggy stepped back and took Rafi's hand. Tidyman, still a little dumbfounded, stared up at the exotic livery of the train car beside him.

  On a track farther over a much more modern train pulled out of the station, the deep hum of the electric locomotive echoing loudly as it gathered speed. Through the open roof the newly risen moon shone down.

  "What about documents?" Holliday asked.

  Caruso pulled himself together, blinking.

  "Uh, right here, Colonel." He took a thick envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. "Passports for all of you, well used, new names. Some credit cards, some cash. When you get to Paris, go to the embassy and we'll take it from there."

  "We're going to Paris?" Peggy asked dreamily. She yawned and leaned sleepily against Rafi. He didn't seem to mind at all.

  "You're booked on the train all the way, Venice, Vienna, and then west to Paris. I've arranged for a shepherd to meet you in Bologna at around midnight. His name is Paul Czinner-he knows all about you."

  "How do we know him?" Holliday asked.

  "He dresses like a slob and he'll be wearing a ring from the Point," said Caruso. "He's one of us."

  "Good enough for me." Holliday nodded.

  A railway security officer in blue slacks and a blazer weaved through the pedestrian traffic on a humming Segway transporter, looking distinctly out of place beside the elegant old train. Holliday looked away, his heart rising into his throat. The railway cop cruised by, heading down the platform, and Holliday relaxed.

  "Weapons gone?" Caruso asked softly.

  Holliday nodded. "Into the Tiber."

  The platform around them was crowded now; last-minute buzzing swarms of well-dressed people speaking half a dozen languages were milling around, followed by attendants in blue uniforms hauling overloaded luggage dollies piled high with designer suitcases.

  "I don't think we're dressed for this," said Holliday, looking around at the obviously upscale passengers.

  "All taken care of," said Caruso. "Suitcase for each of you already in your compartments." He paused and pulled a second folder out of his pocket, this one secured with a rubber band. "Tickets." Holliday took them.

  "How'd you know my size?" Peggy asked.

  "Uh, the colonel described you, ma'am," said Caruso, blushing furiously again. "I used to work summers at my uncle Ziggy's place in the garment district. He ran a fashion knockoff shop and sold stuff on Canal Street. I used to hang out with the models. You sounded like a size six to me."

  "You're a sweetheart," she said, smiling. Caruso reddened yet again. He looked at his watch. "Time to get aboard, sir."

  Caruso led them up into the train. There was a bit of a crush in the narrow corridor, but they eventually reached a doorway midway down the car. The door was made of some sort of burled exotic wood veneer. The fittings were brass. The carpeting in the corridor was a dark paisley pattern, the corridor lights above them soft and muted. Everything looked expensive. The effect was like stepping into an old photograph. Next thing you knew a Russian princess would appear, draped in jewels and smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder.

  Caruso opened the sliding door and stepped aside. There was a drawing room with a long couchette, a folding screen drawn back to reveal two bunk beds in the next room, more wood veneer, more brass trim, more paisley carpet and matching upholstery.

  There were four small black nylon suitcases stored under the couch and on a brass-trimmed overhead rack. Holliday could see a black dress and several suits on hangers stored in a narrow little cupboard next to the door. Neat, compact and elegant.

  "It's a double stateroom, a suite they call it," the young lieutenant said nervously, his eyes on Peggy. "Ten single compartments in each car. These are number six and seven. There are three dining cars, a bar car and three sleepers behind us, four sleeping cars and the baggage car forward. Everything's completely private. Bathrooms at either end of the car. Except for that you don't have to leave the compartment until you get to Paris. The cabin steward will bring you your meals if you want. His name is Mario." Caruso shrugged. "I guess that's it then, sir." He held out his hand. "Do I get an A, Colonel?"

  "A plus, Cadet Caruso," Holliday said with a laugh, taking the young lieutenant's hand. They shook.

  "Good luck, sir."

  The soldier stepped back, gave Holliday a smart, crisp salute and backed out of the compartment.

  Holliday closed the door and threw the latch. He turned back into the little room. Peggy was already sprawled on the couch, her legs across Rafi's lap. Tidyman was seated closest to the window, looking out onto the platform. For the first time since the morning he realized that everyone in the room smelled like a hickory barbecue.

  Holliday felt a hesitant lurching movement beneath his feet. There was the deep bass note of a generator gearing up, and then, almost imperceptibly, the train began to move, sliding silently forward so smoothly there was the brief illusion that it was the platform moving, not the train.

  "We made it," said Rafi.

  "I could sleep for a week," sighed Peggy, her eyes already closed.

  "Being taken captive and held hostage by Tuareg terrorists will have that effect on you," said Rafi, smiling fondly at her. Holliday felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, remembering his time with Amy, so long ago now, before the awful tide of all-consuming cancer swept her away. He and his wife must have looked like Peggy and Rafi looked now.

  There was a quiet knock on the door behind him. Holliday turned around and unbolted the door. He opened it a crack. A handsome thirty-something man in a blue uniform with brass buttons stood in the passage. He was actually wearing white gloves.

  "I am Mario, signore, your cabin steward for the duration of your journey. For your pleasure cocktails are being served in the bar car at the moment. There is also a late buffet in the forward dining car."

  "Thank you, Mario," said Holliday.

  "Prego, signore." Mario gave a little bow. Holliday nodded, smiled briefly and shut the door. He threw the bolt again and turned back into the room.

  "What do you think?" Holliday said. "Anyone up for it?" He shrugged. "I've got to stay up to meet this Czinner character at midnight."

  "Pass," mumbled Peggy, already half asleep.

  "Me too," said Rafi.

  "I'll join you," said Tidyman.

  "From the look on Mario's face when he saw how I was dressed, I think we'd better change first," said Holliday.

  The suits were Zegna and Armani, the shirts were Enrico Monti, the ties were Cadini, the shoes were Mirage and everything fit like a glove.

  They'd taken the clothes out of the narrow closet and closed the connecting panel of the screen. Peggy was fast asleep on the couch and Rafi was snoring sitting up. Holliday hadn't the heart to wake them for Mario to make up the bunks.

  "I feel like an impostor," said Tidyman, grimacing at his reflection in the little mirror over the sink on their side of the compartment. He raked his fingers through his shoulder-length gray hair.

  "You look like something out of GQ magazine," Holliday said with a grin, knotting his red- and-blue-striped tie.

  "GQ for old men," grunted Tidyman. "After today's adventures I feel a million years old. I'm too old to be James Bond."

  "Roger that," agreed Holliday. "Let's go get a drink."

  The bar car was a comfortable arrangement of small ta
bles and tapestry-upholstered wing chairs, with a bartender at the ready and a piano player noodling show tunes and Scott Joplin numbers on a baby grand. The bartender looked bored and the smile on the piano player's face looked completely and utterly insincere. There were only a few people in the car. Apparently if you had enough money to travel on the Orient Express, you were too old to party.

  They sat down at the table farthest from the piano. A waiter in a short white jacket took their order and both men leaned back in their chairs. The wheels rattled and roared over the sleepers and the landscape was nothing more than flickering lights and shapes in the darkness, smeared through the heavy glass by the slanting rain that had begun to fall as they left Rome. The waiter reappeared with Holliday's Martini amp; Rossi on the rocks and Tidyman's brandy.

  "Truly astounding," said Tidyman after taking a small sip from the large tulip-shaped snifter. "This morning men die at my hand and this evening I sip calvados in the bar car of the Orient Express wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit. The world is an amazing place, Colonel, wouldn't you agree?"

  Holliday swirled the fluid in his glass, blunting the sharp edges of the ice cubes. He shrugged.

  "We did what we set out to do," he said. "We rescued Peggy. The men that died today, the bald bastard priest in particular, were going to rape, torture and then kill her. People like that live in a different world, Emil, a darker world with darker rules. I just played by them."

  "No remorse, no feeling?" Tidyman asked curiously.

  "No more than they would have had killing you or me, or Peggy."

  "A beautiful young woman," said Tidyman. "She and the Israeli truly seem smitten."

  "Don't they just?" Holliday laughed. He took a slug from his glass, savoring the taste.

  "She is small, your Peggy, petite," said Tidyman, his voice softening. "My wife was very much like her as well." The Egyptian's voice snagged and he turned away, staring blindly out through the dark window.

  "I'm sorry, Emil," said Holliday quietly. "I know how it hurts. I lost my wife as well."