The Templar Legion t-5

by Paul Christopher

  “Herr Gesler?” she asked. Her face was creased and pink with powder, her gray hair done up in a swirling bun that would have looked perfectly all right on a woman with a bustle dress and a big floppy hat. She was wearing half-heeled dark pumps and a perfectly tailored dark blue suit with white piping that had to be Chanel from the fifties. She had an enormous patent-leather purse over her arm. She bore a close resemblance to the late queen mother. No little old lady in a housedress here; this one was dressed to the nines.

  “Miss Brocklebank?” Saint-Sylvestre responded, with a little bow. He thought about kissing her outstretched hand but decided it would be a little over the top, but not by much. He shook it instead.

  “Indeed,” she said. “My sister, Margaret, is in the library; shall I fetch her?”

  “It occurred to me that we could finish up our business before we went to tea, Miss Brocklebank. We could make it a small celebration afterward, without any pressure.”

  “Well,” said the old woman, “I wouldn’t want us to be late. . ” She didn’t sound eager to be denied her pleasure; the Brocklebanks were obviously not used to being told no, even when it was going to put large sums of money into their pockets.

  “Ten minutes is all it will require; I promise you,” said Saint-Sylvestre firmly. “I only need to countersign the check and have you initial and sign the agreements again.”

  “I thought we’d already done that-the agreements, I mean.”

  “You have,” said Saint-Sylvestre, purposely adopting the slightly condescending tone often used with the elderly and infirm. The old woman got the “a little forgetful, are we?” tenor of his voice immediately. She bristled but backed off.

  “If you insist, Herr Gesler,” she said, her voice brittle, then stepped aside.

  “I’ll make this as painless as possible, Miss Brocklebank,” he said, stepping into the house.

  Betty Brocklebank led him across a short foyer and into the grand hall, all glowing inlaid wood and parquetry with a gigantic fieldstone fireplace beside the twisting stairway, the severed heads of a number of North American game animals hanging from the walls, glass eyes staring at nothing. The floor was covered by an enormous Persian carpet that was obviously the real thing.

  They turned right into a large room, floor covered by smaller throw rugs, two walls covered by built-in oak bookcases, the third wall holding another big fireplace, this one gas, and the fourth wall taken up by a picture window of leaded panes that looked out onto the front gardens.

  The outer row of windowpanes framed the view, with stained glass showing what had to be the Brocklebank coat of arms: a complicated device of swans, coronets and swords in blue, green, purple and gold.

  The furniture was colonial India or Siam with huge wicker fan chairs and bamboo side tables. A second old woman sat on a curving rattan couch set under the window and upholstered in a dark blue fabric set with huge, colorful magnolia blossoms.

  The old lady looked exactly like Betty except for her hair, which was permed into tight curls, the white shaded slightly blue, pink scalp showing underneath. Her suit was the same as Betty Brocklebank’s, the colors reversed, white with blue piping.

  “Margie,” said Betty Brocklebank, “this is Mr. Gesler from the bank in Switzerland. Mr. Gesler, my sister, Margaret Brocklebank.”

  “She was born three and a half minutes before me, which makes her the elder, so she thinks she’s also the wiser, Mr. Gesler.” Margie Brocklebank gave him a curious look. “I didn’t know they had Negroes in Europe now. I don’t remember seeing any there before the war.”

  “My mother was from Alexandria in Egypt. She met my father at the University of Zurich. He was taking mathematics; her degree was in physics,” Saint-Sylvestre said blandly, pulling the lies out of the air like plucking cherries off a tree.

  “I see,” said Margie Brocklebank, obviously not seeing at all. A black man in her living room was difficult enough to fathom; a black woman taking a degree, let alone getting it, was too far out of the box for her to conceive. Saint-Sylvestre sat down in one of the fan-backed chairs opposite the couch, a bamboo-and-glass coffee table between them.

  “I’ll fetch the papers, then, shall I?” Betty Brocklebank said. She didn’t wait for an answer and left the room, her footsteps clattering as they crossed the parquet between the carpets.

  “I was valedictorian at Crofton House, you know,” said Margie Brocklebank, whispering. “Betty was only salutatorian.”

  “Is that so?” Saint-Sylvestre said. He didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about.

  “Yes, it is,” said Margie Brocklebank.

  Betty Brocklebank came back into the room with an accordion file in her hands. She sat down on the couch beside her sister and put the file case on the coffee table. “Has she been telling you her ‘I was the valedictorian’ story, Mr. Gesler?”

  Saint-Sylvestre said nothing. Margaret Brocklebank blushed. Her sister removed her hat, smiling triumphantly.

  “Of course she was,” said Betty Brocklebank. “It’s her favorite except for the one about Mickey Hill standing me up at the Crofton House-St. George’s Prom.”

  “Well, he did stand you up.” The younger sister pouted.

  “At least I was invited,” said Betty Brocklebank sourly. She turned to Saint-Sylvestre. “Shall we get down to business, Mr. Gesler?”

  “Of course,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He lifted the attache case onto the coffee table, unsnapped the locks and opened the case. He reached inside, took out the H amp;K P30 and shot both women twice in the chest. True to his word he’d made his business as painless as possible.

  Never one for half measures, he stood up, went around the coffee table and shot the women again, one round to the head each. He wiped down the pistol carefully using the hem of Betty Brocklebank’s skirt and laid it on the coffee table. When they ran the pistol’s serial number it would slowly but inexorably lead back to Allen Faulkener, and from there to Matheson, hopefully putting the cat among the pigeons. That done, he emptied the contents of the accordion file into the attache case, closed the case up and got down to work. The entire fate of Silver Brand Mining was now in his hands.

  Fifteen minutes later Saint-Sylvestre stood on the covered porch of the Brocklebank house and breathed in a lungful of fresh air. In another fifteen minutes, with the gas jets wide-open and the pilot lights snuffed out in the kitchen and the fireplaces throughout the house, the simple cigarette-and-matchbox fuse he’d left behind would turn the entire downstairs of the old house into an inferno. It would take the local fire department another ten minutes to answer the call, and ten minutes after that for the news stations to receive the news.

  This gave him a forty-minute window to take the limousine back to the Hotel Vancouver and get a taxicab to the airport. If everything went reasonably well the limousine driver wouldn’t connect his last passenger to the fire on the Crescent for at least an hour or so, and by then the inimitable Leonhard Euhler would have been put to rest for good.

  By the time Saint-Sylvestre reached the bottom of the steps the limousine driver was out of the car and standing beside the open rear door.

  “Thank you,” said Saint-Sylvestre.

  The limo driver dipped into his pocket and handed the policeman what appeared to be a fairly clean, crumpled tissue.

  “Got a spot of something on your tie,” said the man.

  “Thanks again,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He dipped his head and sat down, the limo driver closing in behind him. Saint-Sylvestre lifted his tie and wiped the small gelatinous blob of Margie Brocklebank’s brain tissue off the silk with the tissue. The limo driver climbed behind the wheel and they headed off.

  25

  They reached Kazaba Falls and the valley of the Pale Strangers at sunset the following day. They stood on the cliffs beside the smooth, hypnotic curve of the water as it raced over the precipice with a thunderous, all-consuming roar, a veil of mist rising like rainbow-tinted fog all around them, dampening th
e stone. The lowering sun had tinted all that it touched a shade of copper-gold.

  “This is it!” Holliday said, raising his voice above the hammering bellow of the waterfall. “Your Templar Knight’s vision of Eden.”

  It was the mural in the tomb on the island brought to life-the three separate cascades of the falls, each one flanked by a jutting prow of dark stone, the valley broken by the silver snake of the river far below and the three hills rising out of the jungle like the humped torsos of gigantic prehistoric beasts. It was the vindication of everything Rafi had speculated on since they’d left Jerusalem.

  “The only things missing are those high-sided dugouts in the river and the miners with their baskets of ore winding down the middle hill.” Rafi nodded.

  “You sound as though you have been here before,” said Limbani, who had been standing behind them, listening.

  “A Templar Knight came here five hundred years ago,” said Rafi. “He painted this place as a fresco on the walls of his tomb. His name was. .”

  “Julian de la Roche-Guillaume,” said Limbani, nodding.

  Rafi turned to him, startled. “Now, don’t tell me you learned that from Osman, our Catalina flier, because I never mentioned it around him.”

  “I knew the name long before I ever met Osman,” said Limbani with a wistful smile. “I knew it as a child when my father brought me here.”

  “Your father knew of this place?” Holliday said.

  “And his father before him.” Limbani nodded. “For more than a hundred years our family has been to the Umufo omhloshana what Mutwakil Osman, my spy, has been to me-their only connection with the present day and the outside world. It was because of that my father became governor of Vakaga province; this part of the country was prime to be developed: roads through the jungle, talk of damming the river and even using the Kazaba Falls for hydroelectric power. ”

  “The Umufo omhloshana would have been discovered and all their secrets and their legacy destroyed forever. A proud people turned to government handouts and squalor. When my father was murdered by the government I took his place. It is my sacred duty. To the people of this valley I am the Umlondolozi, the Protector.”

  “Conan Doyle’s Lost World,” said Rafi.

  “More like Turok, Son of Stone,” said Holliday.

  “What on earth is that?” Peggy said.

  “A comic book I used to read when I was a kid,” answered Holliday. “Uncle Henry used to buy them for me when I visited during the summer. You’re way too young.”

  “Come,” said Limbani. “We must hurry now; the sun will set soon and the pathway down the cliffs is narrow and quite treacherous in the darkness.”

  They made their descent slowly, the path no more than eight or nine feet wide at best, some pounded earth but most of the way was wide stone steps worn smooth by uncounted centuries of travelers’ feet.

  “The steps were carved by the slaves of Dinga Cisse, first warrior king of Wagadou in the seventh century,” said Limbani, reading Holliday’s mind as he led the way downward. “Although the warrior kings, or ‘ghanas,’ had mined the hills in the valley for a thousand years before that.”

  “What about King Solomon?” asked Peggy, walking behind Holliday in the long file down the cliff.

  “The ghanas of what became Mali were eventually overthrown by the ‘mansas,’ or kings of that empire, one of whom was Sogolon Djata, or in English, King Solomon, and no relation at all to Solomon, king of the house of David. I am afraid that Christians, Jews and Muslims think history began with the Old Testament, but I can assure you, Africa’s history is a great deal older than that.”

  They continued down the precarious cliff trail, which fortunately began to widen slightly. Staring down at the jungle far below them Holliday was suddenly aware that there were strange shapes in the landscape that didn’t quite seem to make sense. He also realized that it was only the setting sun that was giving the secret away, throwing hard shadows where there shouldn’t have been any. Going lower still, perhaps fifty feet from the jungle floor, he saw that it was. “That’s incredible,” he said admiringly. “You’ve got half the valley camouflaged! What are you hiding down here?”

  “We adapt to the times,” said Limbani. “My father got his first doctor of medicine degree at Cambridge University. He was a member of Jasper Maskelyne’s magic circus during World War Two.”

  “The man who made the city of Alexandria in Egypt and the Suez Canal disappear,” said Holliday. “He planted two thousand plywood tanks and painted entire fake armies on Salisbury Plain to throw off German reconnaisance flights just before D-day.”

  “That’s right,” said Limbani. “They knew that aerial photography was an important part of protective coloration, and it’s even more important now with three dozen satellites peering down on us at various times of the day and night.”

  “But why the camouflage?” Holliday asked. “What are you trying to cover up?”

  “In the first place, the fact that the Umufo omhloshana exist at all. They are neither Baya, Banda nor even Kolingba’s scourge, the Yakima. If he discovered them here it would be genocide. Like most African dictators, Solomon Kolingba is a racist, in his case a racist of insane proportions. In the second place. . well, you’ll see soon enough.”

  They reached the bottom of the cliff a quarter of an hour later, a steep path through scrub brush leading down to a wall of dense jungle foliage. Following the path, Holliday realized that what had appeared to be dense jungle in front of them was in fact a curtain of netting hung with strips of multicolored cloth and inter woven with twigs and branches. They pushed through a small gap in the netting and stepped into the forest beyond.

  “Amazing,” said Holliday, staring. “Absolutely amazing.”

  Oliver Gash sat alone at a table in the bar at the Hotel Trianon and slowly sipped his after-dinner cafe brulot, enjoying the aroma of the cinnamon stick and the bitter orange tang of the Grand Marnier. Except for Marcel Boganda, the bartender, the room was almost empty. There were two Chinese trade officials in the corner getting drunk but that was all. Oliver Gash’s appearance tended to clear most rooms he entered, but he was used to his effect on the local populace.

  By now Kolingba was concentrating his attentions on the two prostitutes Gash had imported from Bangui who were willing to take their chances in bed with the three-hundred-pound dictator and his sometimes violent habits. Gash could relax for the evening, but somehow he didn’t think relaxation was in the cards for him tonight. He’d fled from Rwanda the better part of twenty years ago and he hadn’t survived that terrible place and the different jungle of Cherry Hill and the rest of south Baltimore by ignoring his intuitions and his hunches. Over the last ten days or two weeks those hunches and intuitions had set all his senses tingling and his alarm bells ringing, all banging out the same tune: Get the hell out while you can.

  He slowly drank his coffee, trying to put things together in a logical progression, hoping to see something concrete take shape out of the kaleidescope of small impressions, rumors, facts and whispers that a man in his position came in contact with all the time.

  It had started even before the arrival of the Canadian with the German accent; sightings of Limbani had increased and there was an air of expectation among the people, a desperate, uneven thing, the feeling you got when you saw someone die under the wheels of a bus. It didn’t take jungle drums to tell you that the natives were restless and, more important, expectant. These people were perhaps two generations from being naked savages running after their prey. He had no doubt they’d be gnawing on the bones of any ruler who showed a single sign of weakness.

  He hadn’t heard from Saint-Sylvestre for more than a week now, which was worrying in itself, but he had done some investigation on his own. Archibald Ives had indeed been a mining engineer and it hadn’t taken much to backtrack from the murder site on the Sudan highway to his boarding the Pevensey, which plied the course of the Kotto River from Umm Rawq to the first cataract,
effectively the border between southern Sudan and Kukuanaland. From there he’d gone deeper into the bush by dugout. If Saint-Sylvestre was right, he’d found something with enough importance to get him killed. According to the police report he’d eventually bribed the Khartoum police, for the killing was no random highway banditry; Sudanese bandits used old Mannlicher-Carcano Italian infantry rifles from the Second World War. According to the police file, the weapon used to kill Ives was a South African.50-caliber sniper rifle. The men who shot those were neither cheap nor easy to find, let alone hire, so who had done so?

  The.50-caliber weapon led somehow to the appearance of Lanz, who by any indication was no arms dealer. During his time in Kukuanaland he’d made only the barest attempts to do business, preferring instead to go for long walks around the town. In Saint-Sylvestre’s opinion, Lanz was almost certainly plotting a takeover, and his own further investigations had seemed to bear that out.

  On several trips to England made to open up lines of communication with large-scale drug operations there, he’d made a few private contacts who fed him regular tidbits of information about the men he was doing business with or might do business with in the future. Those contacts had only three days ago told him something of perhaps even greater importance: the appearance in London of none other than Francois Nagoupande, dressed in a British Royal Army general’s uniform. Nagoupande had been the vice governor of Vakaga province and the man who betrayed Limbani. He was also a bee in Kolingba’s bonnet. The fat dictator had a paranoid terror of Nagoupande showing up with some phantom forces of arms raised God only knew where, even though Gash had men on a watching brief on the ex-vice governor, who rarely strayed out of his compound on a huge estate in Mali. Nagoupande in a general’s uniform; was it just wishful tailoring or was something in the works? The most forceful clue to come downriver was the sinking of the Pevensey, the riverboat freight carrier destroyed by something big, like a Cessna Caravan. A question arose: Who wanted to stop the freight carrier from brokering eggs to the villages on the river in return for animal skins, native meat, fish and vegetables and occasionally a bit of panned gold or a diamond in the rough? Unless Pevensey’s Cuban expatriate captain was up to no good and bringing more than goat meat upriver.