“Monsieur Ridefort, I didn’t know this was where you lived.”
“Captain Durand. How can I help you?”
Bernard Ridefort appeared slightly disheveled, his hair a mess, matted from heavy sweat, his eyes darting about, as if searching the grounds.
He’s not happy I’m here.
“We had reports of gunshots and explosions coming from here.”
Bernard stared at him for a moment then laughed. He batted a hand. “Sorry about that. Just some fireworks we were having some fun with. With these walls, I guess it might sound like gunshots.”
Durand watched the man’s eyes, not convinced. “If that’s the case, then I’m sure that’s all it was. I’d be remiss, however, if I didn’t at least take a look around. May I?”
He stepped closer, and Bernard retreated inside, closing the door slightly, bracing it with his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I cannot permit that.”
“Why?”
“This is private property, and I have strict instructions that no one is allowed on the premises without permission.”
“That is rather inhospitable. I’m sure an exception can be made for the police.”
Bernard shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
Durand bowed slightly. “As you wish. I will return with a warrant.”
Bernard’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s your choice. When you do, we will cooperate fully.”
The door slammed shut and Durand returned to his car, his driver turning them around.
“What do you make of it?”
Durand pursed his lips. “He’s definitely hiding something.”
33
Off the coast of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Pierre flinched as Schmidt’s men returned, their heads breaking the water just to his left. The first removed his mask and shook his head. “We couldn’t find it.”
Schmidt hauled him into the boat. “You’ve been gone almost an hour. Did you search the entire area?”
The man shrugged off his scuba tanks, placing them against the bulwark. “As best we could. There’s no way we’d miss a crate as large as you described. It either wasn’t on the boat when we hit it, or someone already got to it.”
Schmidt shook his head. “No, our guys in the chopper saw it. It was definitely on the boat.”
The man shrugged. “Then someone got to it, because it’s not there.”
Schmidt cursed, Pierre’s stomach flipping with the news. If the crate with the cross was already gone, then these professors must have had help. It made no sense, though. How would they have known they’d need help before they even arrived tonight? It hadn’t even been an hour since their boat had been sunk. Who could have possibly helped them so soon?
None of it made sense.
Unless Schmidt’s guy is wrong.
“That’s impossible.”
Schmidt glanced over his shoulder at him as he hauled his second man into the boat. “What’s impossible?”
“That someone could have retrieved it already. Nobody knew it was going to be there. It would take special equipment, definitely a boat, and there were no boats except the authorities. There’s no way somebody already got it.”
Schmidt’s man glared at him. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
Pierre’s eyes shot wide. The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but now that it had, it made perfect sense. Schmidt wanted the cross for himself so he could sell it. How could he possibly trust Schmidt’s men to tell the truth? They were probably just shining him on, allowing him to think the cross was already gone, then they’d come back later and retrieve it.
He opened his mouth to accuse them of just that, when he snapped it shut, rethinking things. If he revealed to them that he knew, they might kill him right here, then the cross would be lost to his family forever, though he was sure those who had survived would stop at nothing to retrieve it.
But he didn’t want to die. Not like this, not so young, not before he had enjoyed the fruits of a lifetime of labor. He met the man’s glare, deciding to work with his original hypothesis. “I didn’t accuse you of anything. What I meant was that it must be there, just not where you looked. The professors had no idea why they were coming here tonight, so they had no reason to prepare anything with respect to taking the cross with them. They would have had no need for backup, and even if they had some, that backup could not have known the cross would have ended up on the bottom of the sea. It is simply inconceivable that someone has already retrieved it.”
Schmidt regarded him for a moment, his head slowly bobbing. “I agree.” He looked at his men. “Either you missed it—”
“We didn’t.”
“—or it wasn’t where you were looking.”
Pierre stared at the water. “Maybe the crate got caught in the currents and was carried away from the wreckage.”
Schmidt sat at the controls, the engine roaring to life. “If that’s the case, then hopefully it’s been pulled far enough away that they won’t find it while searching for the bodies.”
Pierre stared back at the scene as the engines carried them away, Schmidt keeping their speed reasonable so as not to draw any unwanted attention. His theory made sense to the others, though there was one problem with it.
After spending over twenty years in these waters, he had never known there to be much of a current where the boat had exploded, and certainly none strong enough to carry a large, heavy crate, any significant distance. He stared at the back of Schmidt’s head.
They’re lying to me. They have to be.
34
Ridefort Residence
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Bernard Ridefort watched as the body of Simone Chartrand was carefully removed from the Maybach and placed on a tarp, two of the survivors of the assault carrying it to the crypt under the chateau. He quickly wiped down the seat of blood, then threw a large sheet over it and climbed in, driving the car to the garage, a garage that a century before had been stables, now only half a dozen horses on site.
He positioned the car carefully, his nephew directing him, an open palm signaling he was lined up properly. He climbed out and stepped aside, his nephew operating the controls, the car lowering out of sight to an underground chamber the police would never find unless they knew where to look.
He jogged over to make sure his youngest cousin was doing his job properly, a large hose washing the blood from the cobblestones, his free hand spraying bleach from a pump bottle. “How’s it going?”
His cousin glanced back at him. “Almost done.”
“Excellent work. When you’re finished, take the metal detector and sweep the area for bullets and shell casings again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bernard glanced back at the garage to see the car gone and the horses now repositioned over the secret entrance, hay and droppings shoveled over the area.
No police officer will be getting their nose into that.
As he supervised the cleanup, he glanced at his watch, unsure of how much time they had left before Durand returned with his warrant. When he did, there could be no evidence of the tragedy that had occurred here. Their leader, Grand Master Jacques Ridefort, was gone and now safe, and young Pierre had failed to steal the True Cross.
And despite his actions today, their duty hadn’t changed.
The cross was still under their protection, and they couldn’t do that if the police arrested them all. Until it was delivered into the hands of the Vatican, this chateau must remain in Templar hands.
He sighed, the mantle of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. It was a travesty what had happened here tonight. So many friends and family dead or wounded, and a family’s honor destroyed.
If I ever see Pierre, I’ll kill him myself.
He paused, watching his young cousin roll up the hose, as he contemplated his nephew’s death.
If I were Pierre, where would I be hiding?
35
Hô
tel Neptune
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
“Were you able to reach Hugh?”
Laura shook her head, helping prop up her husband in one of the two beds in their cramped room. It wasn’t what they were used to staying in when it came to paid accommodations, but it was far more hospitable than a tent in the desert. And the three-star nature of their room wasn’t her concern.
It was James’ wound.
The bandage was soaked through, so she had removed it, laying down several towels in an attempt to save the mattress. Blood continued to ooze, though it was much slower than when they had checked in last night. Yet that was little comfort.
“We need to go to a hospital.”
He shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine. But we’re going to need supplies.”
Laura pulled out her phone to make a list when she remembered it was dead. She found a pen and hotel stationary in the corner of the room on a small table. She grabbed it, then sat beside him. “Okay, we obviously need gauze and tape, and some sort of disinfectant.”
“Hydrogen Peroxide. Polysporin?”
“I think you’d need quite a few tubes of that to do any good.”
He chuckled. “True. I’m going to need lots of water and easy calories. Juice, milk, soup.”
Laura glanced around. “We don’t have a refrigerator here, or any way to heat stuff.”
“I can eat it cold. I just need to keep my strength up and keep my fluid intake high. I need to give my body a chance to replenish the blood I’ve lost.”
“What about infection?”
“He gave me a shot of antibiotics, that much I remember. That should keep me good for a few days. If we’re not safe by then, this wound will be the least of our worries.”
Laura nodded, jotting everything down, then stood. “Are you going to be okay alone?”
“I was for over forty years before I met you.”
“Oh, you didn’t live with your parents for any part of that?”
He grinned. “I was a very independent child.”
Laura gave him a look. “Remember, I’ve seen you with your mother. You were a little mamma’s boy, I think you Yanks call it.”
“Hey, don’t culturally appropriate my sayings just to insult me with them.”
Laura’s eyebrows rose. “Now I know you’re not well.” She tore the page off the pad and stuffed it into her pocket, opening the door. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
He nodded, giving what appeared to her to be a weak thumbs up. She didn’t like it, and if he didn’t show signs of improvement soon, she’d be forcing him into a hospital for his own good.
She closed the door and left the small hotel as quickly and inconspicuously as possible, the desk clerk busy with other guests, leaving her unable to ask for directions. As she walked deeper into the town, she kept her eyes open for a drugstore or some grocery that might carry what she needed, then spotted a kiosk selling phones. She pulled the small travel wallet she always carried on her from her pocket, her purse and luggage back in the Maybach. She opened it, the Euros slightly damp, but her ID and bank cards still there.
She eyed a nearby ATM. The people searching for them were criminals, so they shouldn’t be able to tell that she had accessed her accounts, and she needed more money than the couple of thousand Euros she had. She needed an untraceable phone so she could reach out to their network for help, and she’d need transportation out of here, perhaps quickly, should something go wrong. Not to mention the True Cross sitting offshore, under twenty feet of water.
Though that would have to wait. Her priority was getting James to safety.
She decided to damn the torpedoes.
She strode over to the ATM and withdrew the limit the machine allowed, stuffing the bills inside her jacket pocket then ducking into a store to more discretely distribute them on her person. She headed for the kiosk and purchased a new phone, immediately activating it after getting directions to the nearest pharmacy, then racked her brain for a number to call.
She wanted to reach Hugh Reading to let him know what had happened. As an Interpol Agent, he was in the best position to advise them, and even help them, but she didn’t know his number—it was stored in her dead phone. One of the problems with modern devices was the lack of a need to memorize numbers anymore, something she hadn’t fully appreciated until this moment.
The hotel!
She knew the name of the hotel he was staying at, so perhaps she could reach him that way. She spotted the drugstore and rushed toward it, her eyes drawn to the port to her left, a heavy police presence still evident as their investigation and search for bodies continued.
She entered, quickly purchased her list including the liquid based calories James wanted, a fully stocked fridge located at the back of the store. Canned soup she would grab on her way back at a corner store she had spotted. She paid and left, hurrying back toward the hotel, her eyes on the activity across the street.
Her heart slammed when she saw a man standing among the crowd, staring at the street instead of the port. But it wasn’t his conspicuous behavior that had her panicked—it was the fact she recognized him as one of the men that had come off the elevator before they made their escape in the boat. He turned away.
Or was he?
She tried to calm herself as she continued forward, her bags heavy with the water and juice. She had only seen the men for a brief instance when they stepped off the elevator and opened fire. She had been concentrating on getting them out of the hidden dock without running into the walls.
She glanced back and saw him staring directly at her. His eyes widened, and she forced herself to look directly ahead and keep her pace steady. But he had seen her, of that she had little doubt. And his reaction suggested he had recognized her, so she was correct in her belief he was one of the men who had tried to kill them last night.
She didn’t want to turn her head again in case he hadn’t recognized her, but she had to know if she was being pursued. She risked a quick glance, and her heart slammed as she saw him on her side of the street, closing the distance rapidly, apparently unconcerned if he were noticed. She focused on the sidewalk ahead of her, tunnel vision setting in as her panic grew.
Breathe!
She inhaled deeply and held it for several seconds before slowly exhaling, repeating the tactical breathing exercise her SAS security chief had taught her.
And it worked.
Quickly.
She looked about for a police officer, but found none—all evidently behind her, at the port. She had no weapon and no means beyond her hands to defend herself.
And he probably had a gun.
They were likely after the True Cross, so might not want to kill her, though once she divulged its location, she was a witness with no reason to be left alive.
She had to either lose him or stop him.
Her eye caught an umbrella stand sitting in front of a tourist shop, a dozen walking canes giving her an idea. She made a beeline for the store, grabbed two of the heavier canes, then entered the store, quickly making her way to the back. She placed her bags from the drugstore on the floor then waited, peering at the door from behind a shelf lined with gaudy souvenirs.
It took only moments for the man to appear in the doorway, his head on a swivel as he searched for her. He headed down the aisle toward her position, peering over the shelves, still trying to spot her.
He was only feet away now.
She emerged silently, swinging the cane in her left hand, the solid piece of wood braced at her elbow, and nailed his knee, hard. He winced, dropping slightly, as the other cane swung up and caught him under the chin. He fell backward and she continued her assault, hammering him repeatedly as he tried to block the blows, instead only inflicting more pain upon himself.
She stepped back and let him struggle to his knees before she lashed out with the cane in her left hand. Both his hands dropped to push the blow aside, leaving him completely exposed for the swing of the
second cane. It connected with the side of his head, leaving him in an unconscious, crumpled heap on the floor.
She reached down and pulled his gun from his holster and stuffed it in her belt, then grabbed her bags and headed out of the store, the shoppers and staff staring at her, mouths agape, unsure of what to do. She held up the canes.
“Thanks, but they’re a little too heavy for my liking.” She dropped them in the umbrella stand and lost herself in the crowd.
We have to disappear. Now.
36
Ridefort Residence
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Durand sighed, shaking his head. They had found nothing. Well, that wasn’t entirely correct. They had found nothing incriminating. It was a fascinating search, the treasures and heirlooms impressive, those who lived here clearly enamored with the Templars of old. None answered any questions beyond the basic “yes,” “no,” or “I don’t know” responses typical of uncooperative witnesses.
About all he had gleaned was that no one lived here, they just worked here, humoring the owner by pretending to be knights. The owner was very ill, was out of town receiving treatment in Switzerland, and couldn’t be reached. They had heard the same helicopters as some locals had reported, had been playing with fireworks while the owner was away, and that was it.
When questioned about what appeared to be recent damage to the stonework, they had an answer for that too. Crossbow practice, again while the boss was away. Nothing illegal, no evidence of a shootout, and as far as he was concerned, not a truthful man among them.
Yet there was nothing they could do. The warrant covered searching for evidence of foul play, and they could find none. It was over.
A horse whinnied nearby and he paused, turning toward the stables. He strode over, scratching one of the beasts behind the ear, wishing he had a treat to feed the magnificent creature. The waft of horse dropping filled his nostrils, something that reminded him of when he was a child on the farm, and he smiled.
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 13